


Ralof and Nyil

by ScriptrixDraconum



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Battle for Skyrim, Canon Backstory, Character Study, F/M, Framing Story, Imperials, Stormcloak Rebellion, Stormcloaks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ralof rescues Nyil (OC, not Dragonborn) from Helgen and from Imperial custody. This story delves into Ralof's past, follows his career as a Stormcloak and friendship with the Dragonborn, and follows the relationship that forms between him and Nyil. (Story provides Ralof back story and life after the Battle for Skyrim. Explicit Sexual Content. Skyrim in-game content copyright Bethesda Softworks. No infringement intended.)</p><p>Chapter One: Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof, and other Stormcloak soldiers are detained at Darkwater Crossing. (Prequel to in-game introduction).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkwater Crossing

"Get your hands off him. Don't you know who he is?!" Ralof shouted at the Imperial grunt soldiers as they bound his hands and the hands of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and the true High King of Skyrim.

The Imperial soldiers laughed heartily. "Of course we know who he is," the short one said, smiling as he slapped Ulfric on the back. "We've been waiting for you, Ulfric. And thanks for bringing some friends. We're sure to be promoted now." Other Imperial soldiers laughed as they forced struggling Stormcloak soldiers into horse-drawn carts.

"Wait," said a tall, ugly Imperial who smelled of garlic. "We should cover his mouth. Rumor says he Shouted the King to death!" They laughed again, and the short Imperial ripped a strip of cloth from Ulfric's tunic, followed by another strip. Already in the cart, Ralof cursed at the Imperials, his face turning red with anger. The tall Imperial ignored Ralof kept his eyes and sword trained at the Jarl's neck. The short Imperial balled up one piece of cloth and forced it into Ulfric's mouth, then wrapped another around his head, securing the gag. "Therrrre we go, he won't be doing any shouting now!"

The soldiers shoved Ulfric up and into the cart. With him was Ralof, his second-in-command on this mission in western Eastmarch, and a dark-haired Nord and an unconscious man, both in rags. The unconscious man was also gagged. Another cart held four more Stormcloaks.

Ralof shouted more curses and spit at the cart-driver. He was rewarded with a blow to the temple with the butt of the cart-driver's sword, knocking him unconscious and sending him crumbling to the cart floor.


	2. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While camping near Ivarstead, the Imperials capture a wanted criminal. (Prequel to in-game introduction, introducing OC).

When Ralof awoke, night had fallen and something meaty and garlicy was roasting. The smell made his stomach growl and head ache. Ralof took in his surroundings - the carts had stopped near Ivarstead.

 _Where's Ulfric?_ Ralof panicked.

Ralof righted himself against the cart bench and looked around. Too dark. Where were the others? The unconscious man still lay at Ralof's feet on the other side of the cart. Ralof tried to stand but then realized he was bound to the bench.

"Ulfric?" Ralof asked the night. "Ulfric!" He bent his body to look around as much as he could. Nothing but trees and a campfire glow in the distance.

And then a scream.

Ralof reeled around, fighting his restraints to see where the scream came from. Beyond the trees, beyond the campfire it was pitch black.

A second scream, and sobbing.

A woman.

The sounds of the struggle and a frantic horse drew the attention of the Imperials by the campfire. The tall garlic-breath Imperial came around a small hill and lead a chestnut mare toward the camp, a torch lighting his way. "Here, tie it up with the others." Another Imperial took hold of the limping horse's halter and lead it away. Garlic Man let out a pleased "hmph" and puffed his chest, grinned, and returned beyond the hill.

Ralof trained his ears to the place where the scream came from. Was Alda trying to escape with an Imperial horse?  _Ulfric said she was clever..._ Ralof had just met the new recruit before they were ambushed.

Movement in the distance. More struggling. What was going on?

The sounds of muffled cries made it clear they had gagged her.  _Oh, Alda..._  Ralof cringed and prayed that Dibella would show her mercy.

The sounds kept on for what seemed an eternity. Ralof felt himself nodding off from exhaustion only to be reawakened by a fresh round of cries and grunting. Muffled screams soon turned to barely audible whimpers, drowned out by the men's own lewdness, finally followed by silence and quiet chatter.

Ralof sent silent, raging prayers to anyone who dared listen.  _Make them pay..._

Shortly after the silence, the two Imperials, Garlic Man and the short one emerged from beyond the small hill, dragging a limp figure behind them.

Ralof could see now by torchlight that this was not Alda, a muscular woman with straight auburn hair, cropped at the shoulders. This was someone else. Not a soldier. Perhaps no longer alive.

"What did you bastards do?!" insisted Ralof, practically snarling.

"Shut up," said the short one.

Ralof turned to see where they were taking her. Beyond the thick trees he saw nothing but shadow figures and the dancing campfire. Laughter and unintelligible words were exchanged between men. Loud words followed, but Ralof could not tell who spoke them.

Rage filled Ralof's entire body. His muscles tensed and loosened in waves. His breathing quickened and the air was suddenly too heavy as he thought of her. His fiancée. Raped and murdered by Imperials three years ago. Poaching, they said. Poaching from whom? This was not the Empire's land.

His muscles relaxed and his shoulders sunk. Tears flowed down his face.

Ralof would not get any sleep this night.


	3. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Imperials escort the Stormcloaks and other prisoners to Helgen. (Prequel to in-game introduction.)

Morning came slowly, but with the sunrise Ralof could finally see his surroundings better. The other Stormcloaks including Ulfric were roped together around a huge tree trunk. Yes, there was Alda next to Ulfric. The others were hidden behind branches.

_The woman..._

Ralof only saw blue and red, no civilian woman.

The Imperials were slowly breaking camp and shoving the Stormcloaks back toward the carts. The dark-haired Nord who Ralof had learned was caught stealing an Imperial's horse was loaded into the cart last. "Where's the woman, the civilian?" Ralof asked the horse thief and the still-gagged Ulfric.

"You saw that?" The horse thief asked, half-interested. "They dragged her into camp some time last night. Tied her to a tree near us. She was still out of it this morning." The horse thief nodded towards the other cart.

There on the cart floor was a woman in dun leather pants and vest. Her feet were stripped of whatever shoes she wore. Ralof could barely make out dark curls surrounding her face when an Imperial dragged her to the front of the cart before the others were forced to join her.

"She moaned a bit," the horse thief said.

"What?" asked Ralof.

"She moaned, last night, during her sleep or stupor, whatever was wrong with her. Maybe she's drunk." The horse thief laughed but before Ralof could yell at him the cart-driver moaned loudly for them to all be quiet.

Ralof wrote off the horse thief as either an idiot, a bastard, or both.

Soon enough they were approaching somewhere all-too-familiar to Ralof.


	4. Helgen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof and the Stormcloaks escape Helgen after a dragon attacks. (In-game content re-written to incorporate OC. Adds backstory for when the Dragonborn does not follow Ralof out of Helgen.)

Helgen. Ralof wondered how Freida was doing, who she had married, if she had children, if she still lived here.

Garlic Man untied the rope that held Ralof to the cart bench and unloaded him with the other men. His shoving was entirely unnecessary. Ralof was ready for Sovngarde.

Ralof watched as his comrade was murdered. "As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof sighed. The horse thief was not so brave.

The man who was unconscious was called next. What was his name? Ralof had missed the exchange when the Imperial asked for it. He was busy wondering about the woman in the cart...

A loud roaring sound released Ralof from his thoughts. He looked around but saw nothing. He looked to his left, to Ulfric, and mouthed, "What was that?"

Ulfric, bound and gagged, attempted to tell Ralof exactly what it was. He was sure...

The man in rags stepped toward the headsman and bravely set his head on the block.  _What a waste_ , Ralof thought.

Again the sound, and quaking ground. Movement in the sky caught Ralof's attention and he looked up.

"DRAGON!," a woman shouted.

Ralof looked to Ulfric whose eyes were wide with assertion.

_Ulfric knew,_ Ralof thought.

Panic and fire spread throughout Helgen. Ralof turned to Ulfric but he and the other Stormcloaks had already fled. Where?

_Think. Think,_ Ralof commanded himself.

There, to his left, leaning against a stone wall was a shield and sword. Ralof managed to cut his bonds with the sword and grabbed both.

The man in rags from the cart was still bound and gagged, obviously shaken by the dragon's roar. He helped him up and ordered him to follow.

Ralof needed to find cover, needed to find Ulfric. He made for the nearest tower.

"Jarl Ulfric!" He was there, safe in the tower. "What is that thing?" Ralof was confused and, he had to admit to himself, terrified. "Could the legends be true?" He had to shout over the commotion to hear his own words.

Ulfric looked at his friend and comrade and spoke with the solemnity that only a Jarl could maintain at a time like this.

"Legends don't burn down villages." Ralof and Ulfric held each other's gaze for a moment. The situation was dire. They knew they may not live.

Ulfric looked behind him and then to the tower steps. There was safety in this tower, but for how long? Ulfric smouldered, and shouted his decision to Ralof. "We need to move. Now!"

Ralof knew the shortest way to the Keep was not through the tower door. The dragon had damaged the archway, blocking the shortest path. He looked up the steps, then at the man in rags and Ulfric. There was nowhere to go but up.

Quaking ground. A roar. Fire. The dragon had nearly crushed Ralof as it blew a hole in the tower wall. Ralof sent the man in rags out the hole, into the inn. He looked back at Ulfric and the other Stormcloaks that had followed, and jumped.

The man in rags was gone. Battle mages sent fire magic and archers sent arrows into the sky.  _Arrows against a dragon?_  As he ran, Ralof wondered if this would have done anything at all to the beast.

_There! The Keep!_ Ralof sprinted toward the door.

Ralof heard his name being shouted. He turned to see Hadvar, running toward the keep, the man in rags behind him.

"You damned traitor. Out of my way!" Hadvar raised his sword.

"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time." Ralof raised the sword he found.

"Fine," Hadvar shouted back. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde."

Ralof snarled in reply, then made his way into the Keep.

Inside the Keep, Ralof found the body of his comrade Gunjar. Ulfric and other Stormcloaks soon entered the small round room. Ulfric frowned, lowered Gunjar's eyelids, and then took the sword and shield he carried.

"Someone needs to tell his family," Ulfric said to his comrades.

"I'll go," Ralof said. "He was from Falkreath, not far from Riverwood. I should probably tell my family and others what has happened here." He did not add that he needed to see his family, to make sure they were safe.

Ulfric and the others nodded.

Then Ralof remembered. "Where is the woman? The one who was in the cart with you?" He looked at the other three soldiers, Alda, Rogen and Endar.

"I think they took her into the Keep, before the dragon came," Alda said. "She was still unconscious. They dragged her out before we were unloaded."

Ralof looked down the corridor. The Keep was likely full of Imperials. Hadvar was certainly inside somewhere.

Ulfric took command. "Alda and Rogen, you go with Ralof. See if there are any civilians or Stormcloaks inside. We can't leave anyone behind.

The soldiers nodded.

"Endar and I will make way back to Windhelm. The Stormcloaks must regroup. This new threat... if there is one dragon, there may be many. The citizens of Eastmarch must be warned. We must consider the possibility of further dragon attacks before taking Whiterun, as we had planned."

"I will warn the citizens in the south," said Ralof. "From Riverwood I can send word to all of Falkreath and The Rift."

"And I in the north, The Pale. Couriers could be sent to Hjaalmarch and Winterhold," said Alda..

"I will go as fast as I can to The Reach," said Rogen.

Ulfric nodded in assent.

"But what of Whiterun?" Alda asked. "We are not at war with its citizens. They must be warned as well."

"I will send word there, too." Ralof knew this was the right thing to do.

"Fine. Let's go," Ulfric commanded.

* * *

 

There was little resistance inside the Keep. Finally they found it, the dungeons. A torture room. Ralof's stomach knotted briefly before he dispatched the Torturer. Ralof smelled blood and... He shook his head. "Filth," Ralof muttered. He meant the stench, but Alda and Rogen thought he meant the Torturer, and all Imperials at that.

It was then that Ralof heard it - faint, labored breathing between whimpering moans coming from a cage. Ralof tucked his sword into a scabbard and approached.

There it was, the source of the sound. Curled tightly into herself, terrified and shaking, was the woman with the dark curly hair. Ralof's arms sank to his sides.

"Are you alright?" Ralof asked the woman quietly. She cowered further away from him.

_Stupid,_ Ralof scolded himself.  _She's clearly not alright._

"Find the key, or a lockpick. Now!" Ralof commanded Alda and Rogen.

Ralof turned back to the woman and slowly kneeled down in front of her. "I know how you must feel right now, but this village is under attack. We need to leave."

The woman looked up at him, his face in shadows but blonde hair illuminated by torchlight. She saw the outline of a braid on his left side. Blue uniform. This was no Imperial. She loosened her grip on herself, lowered her arms from across her knees, and inched forward.

Alda approached the cage, picked the lock easily and opened the door. Ralof entered slowly and extended a hand to help her rise. The woman placed one hand in Ralof's, grasped a cage bar with her other, and, slowly, wincing in pain and barely holding back a moan, rose to her bare feet.

"Good," he said. "Now, can you walk?"

The woman considered the thought. "I don't know." She took a step, and then another, exiting the cage. She thought it was possible but the pain on her left side was unbearable and she nearly fell to the ground, but was caught by Ralof.

Ralof wasted no time. He hoisted the woman into his arms and told Alda to lead the way.

* * *

 

Alda and Rogen were busy dispatching several Imperials while Ralof moved forward slowly, to see what was ahead. He saw no more threats. He needed to rest his arms so he lowered the woman to the stone floor in the next room. His thigh was cut by an Imperial arrow as he carried the woman away from the fight. The arrow would have hit the woman, but instead grazed his leg, tearing flesh.

Roaring. Quaking. The stones of the archway began to fall.

Ralof ran for the woman, scooped her up and moved quickly forward, away from the archway. He placed her down behind him and looked back.

Sealed.

"Alda! Rogen!" Ralof shouted as he walked to what was the archway.

"Ralof?! We're fine! But we need to turn back!" Rogen shouted.

"Safe travels. I will see you in Windhelm," Ralof replied.

He turned back to the woman who was wide-eyed with fear.

"It's alright. They're fine. We'll keep moving," he said, moving to pick her up again.

"No, I can walk, I'm sure," the woman protested. She saw the wound on the soldier's thigh. He was bleeding badly. She slowly rose to her feet. Her jaw was clenched, but she stood firm. "Let's go."

Ralof nodded and moved to the lead. No one would come at their backs now.

Further and further into the earth they went. Slowly, the woman managed on her own feet.

She had no weapon; she would not be able to lift a sword or bow even if forced. Her side was screaming. Even the shield Ralof offered was too much to bear.

The woman watched as the soldier killed gigantic, awful spiders that she had only ever seen in books.  _I will never go into a cave again,_  she thought.

The pair crept slowly passed a dozing she-bear who had made this area of the cave her den.

And there, light!

The woman and Ralof exchanged knowing looks. Aided by hope and adrenalin, the two quickened their pace toward the cave opening.

Ralof gasped. The road to Riverwood! The Divines were surely looking out for them.

Distant roaring. The dragon was near, but flying further away. Ralof looked back to see the woman sitting on a rock, panting and looking utterly broken.

"We're extremely close to my hometown," Ralof approached her. "But we should leave soon to get there before night falls. Can you bear walking again? I can carry you there."

The woman swallowed hard. "No, you cannot." She rose slowly from the rock and pulled back the torn blood-stained blue cloth at the soldier's leg. "You've lost a lot of blood, and it's still flowing."

"It's fine," Ralof said.

"No, it's not," the woman replied. She thought a moment, and then ripped off a piece of her now-ragged leather pant leg. "It's all I have, but you have to try and stop the bleeding." She lifted the blue cloth and pressed the leather scrap against the wound. Ralof tried to stop himself from expressing the immense pain she just caused him. "Hold it there, tight," the woman commanded.

Ralof followed her orders and looked at her. Grey-silver eyes, dark curly hair, and light olive skin. Who was this woman?

"All better now," he smiled. "We need to go." He started along the road, but turned back to her and added, "Slowly."


	5. Nyil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof and the woman he rescued from Helgen talk while walking back to Riverwood. (OC framing backstory.)

Her name was Nyíl. Her unusual name matched her appearance. She was raised on a small farmstead outside of Bruma, the northernmost city in Cyrodiil. Her father was from Skyrim – Riften, to be exact. Her mother, raised on the farmstead where Nyíl was born and raised, was an apothecary who treated the poorer citizens of Bruma. She worked often with Zaria, a distant cousin on her side. Nyíl learned to heal from her mother and cousin.

She had Redguard and Nord ancestry, but always felt at ease with Nords, likely from living in Bruma and traveling often in southern Skyrim. She often traveled on a horse-drawn cart between Bruma and Riften, where she traded with Bersi at the Pawned Prawn, and particularly with Elgrim, who always had the most unusual herbs. Often she stopped at the towns along the way.

When the Stormcloak rebellion began, Nords became the object of discrimination, especially in Bruma. To make matters worse, her family's distant relation to the infamous Jearl caused the Imperials to distrust and question them.

One day, not long ago, Nyíl was returning from Skyrim and Bruma was in chaos. The Imperials had sacked the city. The entire city! Nyíl was panicked and confused and angry. She set her horse to a gallop and made her way to her farmstead.

Gone. All gone. Ashes and embers.

She searched for her parents until the evening. Nowhere. Where did they take them?

She slept in her cart that night, and began the journey back to Skyrim the following morning, allowing a wide berth between her and the burning Bruma.

Just after clearing the Pale Pass, on the Skyrim side, she spotted a small troop of Imperials. She pulled at the reins.

She was fuming. Furious. Behind her in the cart lay her bow and arrows. She considered it. Killing them all. There were only three. It wasn't impossible.

She grabbed the bow. Three arrows. One more, just in case. She urged her horse forward again, slowly.

One arrow loaded. Aiming. Did they see her?

_Hit!_

Panic in the group. Another arrow loaded.

_Bulls-eye!_

Two Imperial soldiers lie dead or dying on the ground. The last one was loading his own bow.

Nyíl missed. The Imperial's arrow embedded itself in her horse's left haunch.

 _Run!_  She whipped the horse into a gallop, not caring about the cart's contents. North and east, following the road to Riften. The mare could walk it in her sleep. But she was injured. How far could they make it before the Imperial galloped on his own, uninjured and unencumbered horse?

 _Ivarstead_ , she thought. Her cousin and his family lived there. It was far enough away from the main road to possibly escape the pursuing Imperial. She saw no sign of him, but surely he was there, just beyond sight.

Her horse slowed from a gallop to a trot not even halfway to her destination.

As night fell she turned north toward Ivarstead. Her horse slowed to a limp. "Keep going Mara, we can do it," she urged on her mare.

Halfway from the main road to the town, she was stopped by two Imperials. One tall, one short.


	6. Riverwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof and Nyil make it back to Riverwood, but in bad shape. Ralof's friends take care of the two. (Trigger Warning: Rape Wounds.)

 

Ralof listened to her story as they slowly made their way to Riverwood. Nyíl, the Redguard-Nord from Bruma. Wanted by the Imperial Army for avenging her family. Ralof asked if the Imperials that captured him and the other Stormcloaks knew who she was.

"Yes," Nyíl said softly. She shielded herself with her arms, crossing them over her chest.  _Don't think about it_ , she told herself.

Ralof looked at her, expecting more of an answer, but she had shut down. Ralof understood.

Her accent was different. He figured it to be the Bruma accent.

The pair slowly made their way along the river and passed ancient standing stones. Nyíl heard Ralof speak but did not register the words.

As the town came into sight, Ralof grunted and slowed his pace further. Nyíl moved to his left side and saw that the bleeding was not stopping. The hot autumn weather and his sweat did not help. Nyíl ripped the other lower pant leg off and replaced the sodden one Ralof still held to his thigh. The pant legs were filthy, but the wound will be cleaned soon enough.

Eventually they made it to the town. Nyíl had never seen it. She had always stayed on the south road.

The town had no guards, but had guard towers and platforms.

As they passed under the platform, Nyíl spotted townspeople here and there. Immediately to their right, an old woman was shouting something to a younger man. Both stopped immediately once they spotted Nyíl and Ralof.

"Ralof?" the young blonde man approached.

"Sven," Ralof smiled through his pain. They gripped each other's right forearm in greeting.

"What happened? You're bleeding," Sven began to look pale. He was young. Nyíl guessed he was not used to the sight of so much blood.

The old woman came over. "Bring him inside," she ordered Sven. She led the way, muttering something unintelligible.

Nyíl followed. Once inside, the old woman took a bedroll from a shelf and a thick wooden pallet from against a wall and placed them by the fire. She then unrolled the makeshift bed onto the pallet. Nyíl recognized in the woman the business-like demeanor of a healer. Calm and exact, unfazed by blood and pain.

Ralof gladly sat on the pallet. A chair was placed by his side.

The old woman had Sven boil water in a kettle and prepare fresh linen strips. She began mixing some powders and oils in a mortar.

Nyíl sat at Ralof's bleeding left side. "Do you have any other injuries?" she asked Ralof.

"My left side, my ribs, I'm not sure but I think an Imperial hit me hard enough to bruise through the chain mail."

Nyíl frowned at his uniform. "You need to remove all of this."

Ralof nodded, and stood again, slightly unsteady. Nyíl forgot momentarily about her own bruised ribs and attempted to help him stand. She regretted it immediately. The cry that escaped her lips was unavoidable.

The old woman looked up at Nyíl, who was clutching her side. Nyíl did not want to be a distraction. "I'm fine. We need to help him first." The old woman and Sven continued working.

Ralof tried to remove the uniform himself but the pain in his side was growing worse. It was then that Nyíl noticed the deep, dark bruise forming on his right upper arm. He was worse off than they'd both realized.

Slowly, Nyíl first unfastened the leather straps that held scabbards and small pouches. Once unbuckled the complex system of straps came off easily without forcing Ralof to move his arms. The blue cloth had to be lifted above his head, however, which caused Ralof to groan. Nyíl worked through her own pain. The long leather tunic and mail undershirt would be more difficult. The tunic came down to his lower thighs, but down the back were metal toggles that could be unfastened. Nyil was able to work the leather sleeveless tunic forward, down Ralof's arms, and let it fall to the ground. The old woman came over to collect the tunic and blue cloth. The mail shirt was more difficult than expected. It was too heavy for the injured pair to remove themselves.

"Help," Nyíl said to Sven. The young man came over and lifted the mail shirt. Ralof grunted. Finished, now. Ralof sat again on the pallet. The old woman came over with scissors and cut away the filthy undershirt. This was easy enough to buy anew.

They could see it now, the dark and bloody wound on Ralof's ribs. The chain mail had stopped the sword from slicing his side open, but mail was crushed into his side, bruising and cutting into the top layer of skin.

Sven approached and placed the kettle with hot water on the floor in front of the chair. He handed Nyíl strips of fresh linen. There was something in the water that gave it a strong medicinal smell. Nyíl dipped the linen in the water, let it soak a moment, tested the temperature with her own hands, and then began cleansing Ralof's leg wound. Ralof flinched and inhaled sharply.

"I didn't think arrows could cut this deep," Nyíl said. The wound depth was equivalent to the width of two of her fingers.

"It was close range. The arrowhead was wide, larger than usual," Ralof said. "It would have hit your leg but I turned and moved away."

"I barely remember what happened. In the Keep. In the cave." Nyíl began cleaning his bruised and bloody torso.

The old woman came over with her mixture which had been spread along a strip of linen. A poultice. She placed the cloth against Ralof's thigh which made him jump and gasp. His left hand instinctively gripped Nyíl's knee. She took his left hand into her own, gave a gentle squeeze, and felt his grip tighten.

"Doesn't he need stitches?" Nyíl asked the old woman.

"Not yet," she replied. "This will stop the bleeding, stop infection. Later tonight, stitches and fresh poultice."

Nyíl nodded. She finished cleaning Ralof's side. The cuts were not deep. The old woman came back with another poultice which Nyíl placed on Ralof's side. The old woman then wrapped a longer strip of linen around his leg and secured it tightly. The same with his torso. "Rest now," the old woman said to him. He reclined on the pallet obediently.

"Now you," she said to Nyíl, who nodded. There was no pretending that she wasn't in incredible pain.

The old woman sent Sven out of the house and locked the door behind him. She led Nyíl to a bed and then went to a dresser. Nyíl's top was torn in several places. Her carefully tailored clothes were all ruined and useless now. The old woman removed a simple-looking tunic and pair of linen leggings. She approached with scissors, ready to remove Nyíl's top. "I'll take a look at your side," the woman explained.

Nyíl nodded, slightly nervous about disrobing with Ralof in the room, but he was lying down and could not see her from his position. The old woman lifted her undershirt far enough to see that Nyíl's entire left side was a deep purple. Much worse than Ralof's. "This will hurt," the old woman said just before poking Nyíl in the ribs. Nyíl screamed.

"Hilde!" Ralof shouted. "What are you doing to her?"

"She's hurt too. Mind your own wounds." The old woman was ornery but she sure was efficient.

"They're broken," the old woman, Hilde, she was called, declared. "Lie down."

Nyíl obeyed, sobbing quietly. A little while later Hilde brought over a poultice that instantly created a hot sensation on Nyíl's skin. "Nothing can be done except heat, herbs and time. How is your breathing?" Hilde asked.

"Fine, just painful," Nyíl replied.

Hilde studied her for a moment. Bruises and welts decorated her entire body. Some were in the shape of fingertips. "What's your name, girl?"

"Nyíl," she replied.

Hilde considered her name. She didn't like it. Too foreign-sounding. But that didn't matter now.

"Hilde?" Nyíl said softly. She motioned for her to come closer. "I have  _other_ wounds." Her voice was barely audible.

The old woman furrowed her brow. "Where?"

Nyíl swallowed and indicated the area between her own legs.

Hilde frowned. "When?"

Nyíl thought. "A day ago. I think." She wasn't sure. "Imperials..."

Hilde understood. No need to explain. She left to prepare more concoctions. Nyíl heard Ralof snoring softly. Hilde returned with scissors again. "To examine the rest of you," she explained.

Nyíl's ruined trousers were removed without forcing her to stand. For this her ribs were thankful. Hilde moved to the foot of the bed. Nyíl was timid, but she knew she had to be examined. She hurt, down there, inside. Badly. Slowly giving into her examiner, Nyíl let herself be seen. The ordeal was utterly unpleasant. Prodding fingers reminded Nyíl of her raw and inflamed flesh below.

Hilde closed Nyíl's legs and draped a cloth sheet over her. "Quite normal, for what happened." She's seen these wounds before. "How many?"

"What?" Nyíl asked.

"How many men? How many times?" Hilde was calm and straight-forward. She reminded Nyíl of her own mother.

"Two. Many times..." A tear flowed down Nyíl's cheek as she looked away.

Hilde placed the simple clothes at Nyíl's feet and moved away.

Moments later Hilde returned with what looked like a salve. It smelled horrid. She handed it to Nyíl. "Put this wherever it hurts, inside and out." Nyíl obeyed. Hilde left again, back to her kitchen table to prepare more concoctions.

She then returned and helped Nyíl into the fresh cloths and then back down onto the bed.

"Here," Hilde handed Nyíl a small bottle. "To prevent a child."

Nyíl looked up at the woman.  _Prevent a child,_ Nyíl thought.  _Yes, this is best..._  She drank the tonic, nearly choked on the strong sour taste, and was thankful for a mug of water to wash it down.

"Now rest," ordered Hilde.

 _Rest?_  thought Nyíl.  _Rest... I am hunted. I am broken. I am orphaned and homeless. Rest._

She lied there with her eyes unwilling to close long after the sun went down. Sven returned but Hilde told him to spend the night at the inn. She noticed that Nyíl was still awake and handed her another tonic. "For sleeping," she said. You didn't have to tell Nyíl twice...


	7. Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof helps Nyil cope with her recent trauma.

Nyíl awoke from her nightmare with a scream.

Alone. All alone. But safe... She clutched her abdomen. No sword impaled her.

Ralof was gone. Daylight. How long had she slept?

Slowly, painfully, she rose. A pair of leather boots were placed at her bedside.

Nyíl stepped outside. The day was bright but breezy, cool. Hilde was on the front porch.

" _You_  shouldn't be out of bed, girl," she said.

Nyíl ignored her and the pain. "Where's Ralof?" she asked.

"His sister's house. Around back of this one, big cattle in front." Hilde relaxed back into her seat.

Nyíl found the house and knocked on the door. It opened and Ralof stood in front of her. He looked much better.

"I woke up. You were gone," she said as if no other explanation was needed for why she stood in front of him now. Ralof smiled.

"Come on," he said, inviting her in. He closed the door and sat her down on at the kitchen table. He sat across from her. "I needed to take care of some business. But first I needed to tell my sister I was home, before she found out from someone else." He chuckled. Nyíl supposed this was an inside joke between the two of them. "She's working now. Left me alone to my business."

"Business?" Nyíl asked. Ralof explained about the need to warn nearby towns and cities about the dragon attack. "Dragon..." Nyíl considered the thought. "That's what made the roaring sound? The quaking?"

Ralof forgot that she was inside the Keep when the dragon attacked at Helgen. She must not have seen it flying when they exited the cave.

"They're… real?" she asked. Her eyes were wide with wonder. Or terror. Or both. Ralof studied her silver-grey eyes that shone with a mix of weakness and strength at the same time.

"Yes. We always thought they were extinct, or myth, but..." Ralof trailed off. He considered asking if he should send word to Bruma, but then remembered she abandoned all ties to Cyrodiil. He changed the subject. "When I'm healed," he shifted his position and grimaced,"I need to go to Windhelm. The rebellion still lives. We'll be taking Whiterun soon. We need it. Its location is key."

Nyíl watched him speak. He was completely unshaken. They both nearly died. Has this not affected him at all? Her head sank.

"We could use healers like you, you know," he added.

Her face shot up. Was he joking? No. His eyes were wide, but not with fear – with hope. Ralof slowly extended his hand across the table to her face. He tucked a dark curl behind her ear and lowered his hand to hers. Her body tensed momentarily. Physical touch still made her uneasy. It took her a moment, but she placed her hand over his. Their fingers intertwined.

After a while, Nyíl spoke. "I can't go. Can't risk..." She trembled. Ralof's hand squeezed tighter.

Ralof nodded. "Understandable." He thought a moment. "Still, I'll put in good word for you with the commanding officers. Just in case."

More moments passed.

"Ralof..." Her eyes were downcast. This was the first time she spoke his name to him. Her accent made his name sound odd, but not bad. From her lips the name sounded almost like 'Ralov'.

"Nyíl," he responded. His hand clenched hers tighter.

At that moment, a little blonde boy entered the house. He stood a moment in the doorway, surprised to see a strange woman there. The pair quickly separated their hands. Nyíl turned her head from the boy and blushed. It took Ralof a moment to compose himself.

"Ah, everybody around here's so serious," the boy said. He closed the door and walked to the cupboard to grab a sweetroll. He hopped onto the bench next to Ralof.

"Look at you, Frodnar, almost a grown man!" Ralof said to the boy. "Won't be long before you'll be joining the fight yourself." The boy smiled and took a chomp out of his sweetroll. He couldn't be more than 12 years old.

Nyíl's stomach turned. Was it the suggestion that a boy could fight a war, or her nerves? Her stomach turned again. She rose from the table. "Excuse me," she said quietly. She quickly exited the house and ran to the backyard. She found steps to the watchman's platform. But before she could climb, she vomited. Nothing but water. How funny it is when one realizes they forgot to eat. She sat on the third step. Her ribs were on fire. How long will this last?

"They call it 'post-traumatic stress." Nyíl looked up to see Ralof standing in front of her with a loaf of bread and bottle of wine. He limped closer and sat beside her. He handed her half the loaf. She took a small bite. "Soldiers have it all the time," he continued. "Some... some can't handle the danger, death... killing others. The women in our troops... sometimes they are... sometimes they get taken. Not often, but it happens. Sometimes the men too. Not all Imperials are so horrible... Some people, no matter who they are, where they're from, they just have no... respect for other people. Other people's honor, or comfort or lives."

Nyíl looked up at Ralof. His face had hardened. He took a long drag from the wine bottle. These thoughts had obviously triggered a memory. A bad one. She didn't want to guess what.

"Will I ever feel normal again? I mean... not jump... every time I'm touched? Not have horrible nightmares..."

Ralof looked at the woman sitting next to him. "You don't jump when I touch you..." he said quietly as he gently placed his hand on hers.

Tears filled Nyíl's eyes. She began to shake. Ralof put his arm around her and, though it hurt, gently pulled her to his side.

She began sobbing then, and leaned her head on Ralof's strong shoulder. Everything hurt. It hurt to cry, to breathe, to eat, to think, to live...

They sat there together for a long while, Ralof enveloping her in both arms. She ate some more of the bread. They both drank the wine. What she needed most right now was someone who understood, and Ralof certainly did. He also saved her, even when he did not have to. She was no one to him, after all... He was worthy of her trust.

The sun crossed the sky. The village animals not in corrals wandered around. Chickens pecked around for seeds. A dog chased the chickens. A woman chased the dog.

Clouds formed shapes of all kinds. Nyíl saw a rabbit. A mudcrab. A bear.

 _A bear._ Nyíl recalled an emblem she saw in Ralof's sister's house. A small blue banner with a silver bear embroidered onto it.

The sun suggested it was mid-afternoon when a Stormcloak soldier approached them from the main road. Ralof stood immediately. He muffled his pain-induced grunt. Another soldier followed after him. This one was extremely tall, and towered over even Ralof.

"Arrald, Jod, what are you doing here?" Ralof met them halfway.

"We met a new recruit, Rogen, on our way east. He told us what happened at Helgen," the tall one spoke first. He was older than the other and dressed differently. An officer, perhaps.

"We're on our way to Windhelm, as are others," spoke the shorter, younger soldier who was dressed like Ralof.

"Everyone? All Stormcloaks?" Ralof asked.

"Most of them, yes," said the shorter one. "Some stayed behind, either because they were injured already or they had orders to remain in particular camps."

"So, it's finally happening," Ralof sounded almost jovial. "The troops are converging?"

"Yes. We thought we'd come by Riverwood to collect you, then take the south road and alert all others stationed along the way. Rogen said Ulfric wanted you back in Windhelm as soon as possible," the tall one said.

"Indeed, he did." Ralof was conflicted, but knew he belonged at Ulfric's side. He looked behind him to Nyíl who sat on the steps, listening quietly. She looked pale. Ralof turned back to the soldiers. "However, my sister would never let me travel in the condition I'm in."

The soldiers looked confused. Ralof explained what happened as they escaped Helgen and described his injuries. "I don't think I will be able to leave for a day or two, at least." This news did not sit well with the soldiers, but they could barely argue. Travel and exertion with such a wound could end in infection and death.

"Very well," said the tall one. "It's safer to travel in groups. We'll stay at the inn. Just let us know when you've been cleared for travel." Ralof nodded, and the two soldiers dismissed themselves.

Ralof watched them leave then returned to Nyíl's side, lowering himself slowly. Just then Nyíl noticed bright red seeping through his bandages. His stitches failed.

"Ralof, your thigh," she touched his bandage. Indeed, fresh blood had saturated the linen and reddened her hand. "Come on, we need to get you in a bed and stitch you up again."

Though it pained her immensely, Nyíl helped him walk back to his sister's house. When they entered, the boy and who Nyíl assumed was Ralof's sister and brother-in-law were all inside the house.

"Gerdur," Ralof half-smiled through the pain. "I believe you have yet to meet Nyíl."

"Hello..." the tall blonde woman said. Nyíl nodded hello and led Ralof to the smaller bed.

"Uncle Ralof!" Frodnar said.

"What's happened?" Gerdur went over to her brother.

"His stitches failed," Nyíl said. "Do you have a needle and thread? Bandages? Or I could go to Hilde for some."

"Yes, we have some." Gerdur went to find what Nyíl asked for, ordered Hod to boil water and for Frodnar to go to his friend Dorthe's house and spend the night there.

Ralof needed a bed, and Nyíl was not going to let him out of it anytime soon. She figured Gerdur was thinking the same thing.


	8. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof is confined to bedrest as he heals. His fellow Stormcloaks impatiently await his recovery.

It was three days before Hilde and Nyíl were both satisfied that Ralof's stitches would not fail again. Hilde made him drink a strong tonic twice a day that was meant to quicken the body's healing process. Unfortunately, it also made him dizzy and drowsy. Nyíl resigned herself to sitting at his side most of the day, and sleeping on a bedroll next to him at night. Hilde was happy about this, as opposed to Nyíl walking around all day with broken ribs. She still made her wear a poultice all day. The poultices made Nyíl smell of flowers and spices all the time. Ralof commented several times that he enjoyed the smell.

Every morning the Stormcloaks checked on Ralof to see if he was healed enough yet, and until this fourth morning they were declined. Ralof agreed to leave as soon as his head stopped spinning, otherwise he feared he would drop from his horse. At this comment, the soldiers exchanged a look with one another and left.

Nyíl laughed. Hilde had given her a similar tonic, not for protecting against infections but to aid in healing, and she was also a bit dizzy. Apparently the tonic also made its imbibers giddy. "They're annoyed with you," she said to Ralof.

He chuckled. "I don't blame them. I can't help that the medicine I've been given turns me into a mess of a man, but us soldiers are expected to be..." he laughed, "not like this."

Nyíl smiled at him. He hadn't smiled and laughed this much since she met him. She was pleasantly surprised by deep dimples in his cheeks that only showed when he was extremely happy.

Suddenly Nyíl felt ill at ease. The dizziness didn't help, but she realized Ralof's health meant he was going to leave. Leave here. Leave her. "When do you think you'll go?" Nyíl asked quietly, her eyes fixed on her own hands as she pretended to inspect her fingernails.

"Tonight, or tomorrow at dawn, or sooner if I can walk without the room spinning," Ralof said plainly.

Nyíl nodded. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Hilde entered the house then. She wanted to show Nyíl how to mix the tonic she was making the two of them drink. They worked at the kitchen table.

Later on, Dorthe burst into the house, shrieking with glee, that Sven had finally proposed marriage to Camilla and that she said yes! Dorthe was nine years old, so one could hardly blame the girl for dancing around with such joy at the thought of attending a wedding for the first time in her life. Hilde looked surprised, although Nyíl was sure Sven had mentioned his plans to his mother on several occasions. Hilde's mind was at times slipping from reality, but she could still heal the sick and injured better than anyone; even Nyíl was learning new tricks.

Ralof couldn't help but laugh at the girl when she started to dance around in circles and hum the traditional wedding tune played at ceremonies in Riverwood. Of course, marriages were only officially and legally recognized when they were performed at the Temple of Mara in Riften, but few people could afford such a pilgrimage. Each village had their own traditions, and they were just as real to the people as any official ceremony could ever be. Tonight, there would be an engagement party for the to-be-weds.

While Nyíl watched Dorthe, she caught Ralof gazing at her. He looked away but continued to smile.

 _Was he blushing?_  Nyíl wondered. She blamed it on the tonic.

That afternoon, Ralof felt better and was able to walk without falling over. He packed a small knapsack with some supplies, set it at the door next to a new axe he purchase from the blacksmith, then left to take care of a few things around town, perhaps talk to the other Stormcloaks at the inn. Nyíl remained at Gerdur and Hod's house with Hilde, who insisted on teaching her many new tonic and poultice recipes.

Night began to fall and Nyíl wondered where Ralof was. His pack and axe remained there in the house. "Come on, Hilde," Nyíl said, standing. "It's time for your son's engagement party."

"Oh, yes," Hilde said. She cleaned up her equipment and headed to her own home.

Nyíl felt inappropriately dressed in her ill-fitting tunic and linen leggings Hilde had given her days ago. She went to the dresser drawer Gerdur had said she could use. Inside was a dress she purchased from the Trader. It was simple, but nice enough. Blue with white lace. She also replaced her leather boots with nicer shoes she purchased as well. Not purchased,  _per se_. Nyíl had no money any longer. She bartered with the future promise to clean or help around the shop, whatever they wished once she was fully healed. Her ribs still screamed with every movement, but slightly less so now.

She picked up the small looking-glass that Gerdur had. She looked haggard. Nyíl blamed it on the pain and the tonic. She put some water in a bowl, added dragon's tongue oil, wet her hair a bit and combed her dark curls with her fingers. She chewed some blue mountain flower leaves to freshen her breath, washed her mouth with honey-water, took a deep, painful breath, and left for the party.


	9. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof leaves for Windhelm.

Nyíl entered the inn. The music was cheerful and Sven sang a new composition. Camilla grinned up at him from hear seat. The news of their engagement traveled quickly that day. Nyíl was working with Hilde that morning in Gerdur and Hod's house, learning about herbs and new tonic recipes when Dorthe burst into the house to announce the happy news.

She looked around but found Ralof missing from the celebrations. Gerdur was there at a table, eating with her family. Nyíl wove through the crowd to her.

"Gerdur, where is Ralof? I haven't seen him all day." Nyíl tried to act calm.

"He left," Gerdur replied.

The words made no sense to Nyíl.  _He couldn't have..._ "Left? For where? What do you mean?" Nyíl's voice was shaking.

"To Windhelm, to meet up with Ulfric and other Stormcloaks. Didn't he say goodbye? He was here a moment ago, to congratulate Sven and Camilla. You just missed him." Gerdur said more words but Nyíl heard only sounds.

Nyíl ran to the inn door and pulled the handle, but it would not open. Confusion and fright and the feeling of being contained engulfed her until she suddenly remembered the door opened outwards. Nyíl made a faint cry of desperation and pushed. Bursting into the moonlight, she ran to the road, nearly tripping over the dog. That damned dog.

 _Where was he?_ Nyíl was shaking.  _Think,_ Nyíl commanded herself.  _East. East, to Windhelm._  She immediately turned left and followed the road east. The moon was almost full tonight, and aided by street lamps she made her way easily.

 _There!_  Just before the watchman's platform, Ralof stood with the two Stormcloak soldiers who were readying three horses. A blonde gelding was receiving a pat on the neck from Ralof. He nickered and swished his white tail. The other horses joined in. Nyíl then realized she was standing with the wind to her back. Did the horses smell her fear?

The soldiers spotted Nyíl. The tall one cleared his throat and elbowed Ralof in the side, indicating with his eyes and head toward her, a statue, frozen in the moonlight. Ralof met Nyíl's gaze. An infinite moment passed before either dared to look away. The moon and clear sky made Ralof's hair appear white-gold, his eyes ice-blue. The moon and glowing lamps illuminated Nyíl's form. For this she was thankful, convinced otherwise she would have been lost in the shadows, a specter, a shade, unseen and forgotten.

The blonde gelding shifted his weight, waking Ralof from the moment. He spoke in a low voice to the Stormcloaks. The nearby river drowned the words. The two men nodded, made certain the horses' saddles were fastened tight, mounted, and urged them forward, slowly, down the eastward road.

Nyíl felt as if her heart were in her stomach, unsettling her insides and threatening to send her shaking body to the ground. Ralof stood firm, gripping the blonde gelding's reins. Gripping too hard. His left forearm rippled with tension; his fingers curved and curved again around the leather strap.

Nyíl took an uneasy step forward. What was there to say?  _Don't go. Don't leave me._ The admittedly selfish thoughts flooded Nyíl's mind and made further movement even more unsteady. Her arms were dead weights at her sides. Another step.

Ralof loosened his grip on the reins and moved slowly toward the horse's flank. His gaze shifted from Nyíl to the saddle. His right hand ran along the curve of the leather, down the horse's belly, and flattened out the thick cloth saddle pad. His right hand gripped the rear of the saddle.

Nyíl was not breathing.  _Breath,_ she commanded herself. A gulping, gasping sound emerged from nowhere. Ralof's muscles weakened. His head sank and his forehead rested on the saddle. Another infinite moment.

"Ralof..." Nyíl spoke in a pleading whimper, her body trembling in the cold, unforgiving breeze that only heightened her unease. There were no words. What was this feeling? Fear, certainly fear, dread, but more than that. The unknown emotions caged her thoughts completely.

Ralof's right hand once again tightened its grip on the rear of the saddle and in a blur he was atop the blonde gelding, already urging it forward, eastward, following the other Stormcloaks.

Nyíl matched the gelding's pace and silently followed. Slowly, passed Hilde's house, passed the watchman's platform. She stopped before the bend in the road. Enough sense remained to remind her that she was unarmed and shivering in the night breeze. She stood there, willing the horse to stop. Willing Ralof to turn him around.

Just as the horse took him around the bend in the road, Ralof turned his head to his left and caught Nyíl's gaze. The horse did not stop, but the short scene froze in her memory. His eyes and face sparkled in the moonlight, or perhaps the river and foliage combined to form the tiny reflections of light. And just before Ralof was concealed by the hill and by the darkness beyond the bend, he smiled.

_Smiled!_

_No,_ Nyíl thought.  _Not a smile. Not quite..._

Where had she seen that look before? Her memory played back the image. His lips, the left part of his mouth curved upward in a half-smile. His left dimple making a rare appearance.

And then she remembered.

_Pain._

That was the half-smile she'd seen before. When he was in pain but tried to hide it behind smiles. But why pain? Why now? His wounds were well healed.

_Pain. A sparkling face._

And then it hit her. Pain. As if some invisible person kicked her in the gut, Nyíl doubled over in pain. Not the pain that needed cleaning and stitches like Ralof's wounds, not the pain of her own broken ribs... This pain was deeper than any bruises or raw, bleeding skin.

Nyíl clutched her chest, gulped for air, and clawed at the stone-paved road. And then the tears came, unstoppable, wetting the ground.

A dog began to howl. It was only then Nyíl realized she was wailing. She felt small grooves in the cold, hard dirt between the pavestones that her nails had dug.

A crowd formed behind her, in front of the watchman's platform. Nyíl could feel their gazes and hear their murmurs. Someone was helping Nyíl stand.

Gerdur.

How much time had passed from the moment she exited the inn until now? Surely the crowd had watched the whole scene. Nyíl suddenly felt weak and overexposed. Words were shouted. A man came to help Gerdur.

"Take her to the house," Nyíl heard Gerdur say softly.

Hod. How strong he was. Nyíl felt like a wisp of nothing. A tiny child unable to make sense of the world. Hod walked briskly to his house and the cattle greeted him cheerfully. Nyíl heard small footsteps run passed them. Frodnar. The door opened and Nyíl was layed in Frodnar's bed, the one Ralof had occupied the last few days. Hod settled her in with blankets and ordered Frodnar to bring her water. The child said words in a worried voice that were unregistered by Nyíl.

The scent of a fire and stew. More voices. Were they speaking to her? Enough time passed and they stopped talking. The candlelight was extinguished but the fire was left crackling. The sound and smell was comforting. At some point after hearing Hod snore and cattle mooing softly, Nyíl slept.


	10. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyil copes with the departure of her companion.

It had only been a few days, but Ralof had become a rock. No, an anchor. A consistency. An expected and welcome fact in her life. He understood her suffering and offered a steadiness to hold onto, without complaint. Perhaps he even... Nyíl dared wonder if he may have even enjoyed her company.

With the knowledge that Ralof would not be there in the morning, Nyíl felt isolated and alone, like a stranger, an outsider, an  ** _intruder_** in his village and particularly among his family, inside their home. Really, she was a stranger. How long has she known these people, and they her? She was an invader, sleeping in a little boy's bed who was forced to wedge between his parents in theirs. These people had no reason to trust her, no reason to feed, house and accept her at all.

Who else where there now? She had no lovers to speak of, no romantic ties that might make for a comforting presence. Her 23 years had only business partnerships and merchant skills to boast about. And healing. Healing. Her travels brought new ingredients and with new ingredients came new knowledge and discoveries. Perhaps she could be a proper apprentice to Hilde. But staying here meant a constant reminder of Ralof...

Cousins. Aunts and uncles. Far away. Alive? Were her parents alive? Crossing the Jerall Mountains would be a death sentence for sure. Or worse.

Riften, where she did business and had friends. She wondered how Brynjolf was doing. Would she be able to travel there without encountering Imperials? Would they recognize her if she did? She would need a horse. She would never be able to afford one now...

These and more, so many more were the thoughts that plagued Nyíl's mind hours before the sun began to rise, before the roosters and townspeople brought the village back to life. In the small bed she remained on her uninjured side with her back to the world, blankets shielding her from the sounds of life stirring outside. Cocooning her from reality.

What good was it to rise from this bed, anyway? Her ribs ached. She remembered running last night. A mistake not realized until the morning.

 _What silly things we do when we..._ Nyíl thought.  _What? When we what?_

The feelings and thoughts within her mind and body were a jumbled mess. She pulled the blankets tighter around her. She envisioned creep clusters spreading inside and around her body. Gripping her. Containing every last emotion and unwilling to let them escape.

She remembered the tonic recipe Hilde taught her yesterday. The one to induce sleep. Nyíl considered making some and then realized she had no more of the necessary ingredients. Were they still in her cart that was left behind near Ivarstead when she...?

Nyíl curled into herself on the bed and felt bile rise from within her, threatening an exit from her mouth. She clenched her eyes closed and swallowed, fought back the tears and vomit, and covered her face with the blanket.

No more memories. Oblivion. Do not think.

Numb.

Numb is good.

Numb ignores the possibilities that never would come to pass.

Numb forgets the pain of a life long gone.

Numb enables a new day, a new start.

Numb allows a body to function.

Numb lets you forget who you are.


	11. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerdur helps Nyil understand why Ralof did not say goodbye to her.

A small voice and light touch tried to get Nyíl's attention.

Frodnar.

Nyíl lifted the veil of blankets from her face to find Frodnar standing at her side with a bowl of spiced porridge. "For breakfast," he smiled.

She accepted the bowl. "Thank you." Nyíl managed a weak smile.

Frodnar scampered away but then turned back and said to Nyíl, "Don't worry, Uncle Ralof will be fine. He's a  _great_  warrior!" The boy's smile was radiant. He practically frolicked out the door.

Nyíl looked up at Gerdur who was sweeping the floor. She stopped and returned Nyíl's gaze. Ralof's sister was tall and strong, like him, but she was a woman. Even in her numbness Nyíl could tell that Gerdur knew exactly how she was feeling.

Gerdur leaned the broom against the wall, pulled up a chair next to Nyíl's bed, and sat down. She looked at Nyíl a moment. "Eat, you need it."

Nyíl obeyed.

Even swallowing hurt. Did she re-break her ribs?

After Nyíl swallowed several spoonfuls, she sat the bowl on her lap, paused, then asked Gerdur with pleading eyes, "Why didn't he say goodbye?"

Gerder, who was sipping a mug of tea, sighed, and placed the mug on an end table.

She straightened out her dress. "I think I may know why," Gerdur said, avoiding eye contact.

Nyíl waited.

Gerdur cleared her throat and continued. "Three years ago, Ralof was engaged to a woman named Tilda."

Shock came over Nyíl.  _Was he married? Is that why he never..._ _Wait, 'was' engaged?..._

"She was a farmer's daughter, from Rorikstead," Gerdur continued. "He had just joined the Stormcloaks as a new recruit and was sent to a camp near there. The soldiers often went into the town to trade and drink. That's where Ralof met her. One day, he was given leave to return home, and he brought her here. They announced that they were going to be married in the spring. I don't know why, but she wanted to wait until the spring season..." Gerdur cleared her throat again. "Only a few days later they had to return to Rorikstead. Ralof and his troop had been sent to a fort west of there... I can't recall... but while they were gone, Imperials stormed Rorikstead. Someone, a spy or a scout, had found out that they were supplying the Stormcloaks..."

Nyíl gulped.

"The Imperial soldiers questioned everyone. No one admitted to anything, and there was no firm proof. But the Imperial commander was sure. Old Rorik was the only citizen they trusted. But Rorik did not recognize the Imperial troop that invaded his town..." She looked up at Nyíl. "All of this was related to Ralof and the other Stormcloaks when they returned, you see..." Nyíl nodded. "Rorik sensed something different about these men. Their shrewdness. Rorik was a peaceful man, always had been, even convinced his best friend to dissuade his son, Erik, from joining the current war..." She shook her head. "Anyway... the Imperials became indignant, and someone must have told to them, or they found out... there  _must_  have been a spy... that Tilda was engaged to a Stormcloak."

Nyíl was suddenly terrified.

Gerder continued. "They grabbed her, Ralof was later told, and dragged her into a house that they overtook as their own. They locked the door, so people, her friends, family, banged and banged. Shouted for her. Shouted curses at the soldiers. It was then an Imperial stormed out and hit an old woman so hard that she died from the head wound. The group was apparently stunned or terrified... so they could do nothing but stand there. They were just farmers, after all... The Imperial forced everyone to leave the area and stood guard at the door the rest of the night. No one knew what they were doing. They thought, just interrogating. No one thought..." Gerdur couldn't hold back her tears, and soaked them up with her sleeve. "The soldiers had tortured and raped her. The wounds she had... Whips, chains maybe. Tilda never said what happened exactly. Perhaps she did not remember. Or forced herself to forget...

"The Imperials got nothing from the villagers, no information. The next day the Stormcloaks returned to find the Imperials there. Slaughtered every last one of the bastards, except their commander. He was tied up in a basement. Even then, Ralof did not know what had happened. After, he went to Tilda's house but her mother stepped outside and would not let him see her until she told him what had happened. Eventually he was allowed to see her. She was broken, completely broken, and in his arms she died that night."

Gerdur dabbed her eyes again.

"The story the Imperial commander told to everyone was that the girl poached the Empire's elk. No one could believe what they were hearing. Everyone knew that Tilda did not hunt, and still, the elk were for anyone who wanted them. 'The punishment is a whipping,' he said as if the events that transpired were commonplace. The Stormcloaks were not there, but the townspeople told them what happened, about the interrogations, and what they saw, the old woman... The Imperial commander was finally killed.

"Ralof said to me that something broke inside him that day, he felt it, he said, like a glass window shattering. 'One day,' he kept saying to me. Had his troop been gone one day less, this would not have happened. He blamed himself, always will, even knowing as a recruit he had no say in where they were to go and when... Ever since that day he had no more interest in love. I don't know about anything else, having lovers or just, you know... but  _love_... No. The concept did not exist for him. I suppose he felt he was protecting others as much as he was himself. Women showed interest, many did, over the years, but... I hurt for him, more than he did for himself, in the end. He always wanted a family... But he either could not or would not let himself get that close to anyone again." Gerdur looked up at Nyíl. "Until he found you."

Nyíl took a moment to return from the horrifying story she had witnessed. What did Gerdur just say? She gave Ralof's sister an inquisitive look. "What?"

Gerdur stood, removed a folded paper from her dress pocket, and handed it to Nyíl. She took the bowl of porridge from Nyíl's lap and placed it on the end table.

"He's never been one to express his feelings well. Warriors seldom are..." Gerdur said. She gave Nyíl's hand a quick squeeze, walked to her dresser, grabbed her work gloves, and left the house.

Nyíl stared at the folded paper. Her name was written on one side. She traced the ink for a while, swallowed, and unfolded the paper.

 

> **_[Adapted from original lyrics by Eddie Vedder, “Just Breathe”]_ **
> 
> Understand, every life must end. As I sit alone, I know someday we all go.
> 
> I’m a lucky man to count on both hands the ones I love. Some people have but one, others, they have none.   
>   
>  Though I’m here, and you, there, please stay with me. Just… breathe.
> 
> For all my sins, I may never win. Despite everything, I’m just a man - I don’t want to hurt. There’s so much in this world to make me bleed.  
>   
>  But please… Please, stay with me. Even now, you’re all I see.  
>   
>  I wondered every day as I looked upon your face, with everything you gave me was there nothing you would say? Nothing you would take?
> 
> I couldn’t tell you… I need you. I want you.
> 
> Indeed, I’m a fool. No one knows this more than me.
> 
> So, I’ve come clean.  
>   
> 
> 
> —RALOF—
> 
> …I would hold you until I died, and would meet you on the other side.


	12. Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyil tries to make sense of Ralof's words to her. She copes with her post-traumatic stress and confusion by doing everyday tasks.

Three weeks passed until Hilde allowed Nyíl to do light activity. Light cleaning and seated activities only.  _Seated activities?_  Nyíl thought. Wasn't that what she has done for the last several weeks?

Still, Nyíl was grateful for the opportunity to do something, anything, other than sit in that small bed. She fulfilled her promise to help out at the Trader to pay off her debts. She cleaned, organized light-weight objects, and helped with the bookkeeping. The shopkeepers were grateful for the help, as recently someone had broken in and stolen a few things, and they needed to figure out exactly what.

Nyíl tried to think about the tasks at hand. Clean. Dust. Move merchandise here, there. They would only allow her to lift crates of herbs and flowers, since they weighed nothing. Clean. Dust. Move. Don't think about the letter. Clean. Dust. Ralof...

Nyíl shook her head.

Clean. Clean clean clean.

Three weeks and still the words Ralof wrote to her plagued her mind. _I'm just a man..._ Gnawed at her insides.  _I don't want to hurt..._  Dust. Dust again.  _I wondered every day as I looked upon your face..._  There was no more dust.  _I couldn't tell you..._  Stare at the dustless cabinets.  _I need you..._  Unsteady handwriting added a tremble to his voice.  _I want you..._  Was his hand shaking when he wrote those words? Polish candlesticks.  _I'm a fool..._  Polish them again.  _I would hold you-_ Nyíl squinted hard as if to squeeze the words from her mind _-until I died._

The fragmented phrases sounded in her mind like a song that a bard was practicing, over and over, over and over... Verses, out of order, random, over and over. _...please stay with me._

"Stay with you?" Nyíl said to no one. "Stay here?" _What did he mean?_ Align the apples. Straight rows of red and green. _...the ones I love..._  Now alternate colors. Red green red green. "Love?" She stared at the apples. Sat on a stool. Red green red green.  _...was there nothing you would say?_  "Say... what..." Alternate apples with potatoes. Red green potato. "Say  _what_?..." Red green potato.

Over and over. Nyíl knew she was going mad. She'd begged Hilde for sleep tonic but she was refused.  _Could form a habit,_  she said. _Too young to be dependent_ , she said. "What do YOU know, Hilde!?" Nyíl yelled at the apples and potatoes.

Take out the potatoes. They have their own shelf. Potato. Potato. One potato two potato three... Leave the apples in a jumble.

Camilla came in as Nyíl was re-stocking the potato shelf. Nyíl looked up at her as if caught stealing. Camilla just smiled and went over to the corner to unload a heavy sack. "How are you today, Nyíl?" Camilla walked over with a coin purse.

"Same," she replied.

"You know," Camilla said, "You worked off your debt a week ago. Here," she placed the coin purse on the counter in front of Nyíl. The woman just stared at it and then at Camilla. "Your wages." She laughed at Nyíl's blank look. "I don't keep  _servants_. You earned it." Camilla left to go upstairs.

Nyíl picked up the heavy purse. Opened it. Looked inside. Gold coins. Poured it out onto the counter top. One. Two. Three. She counted them all. Twenty. Twenty gold. She stacked them into piles. One two three four. New pile. One two three four. She jumped when Camilla was in front of her again.

Camilla laughed again. "You're so jumpy. I'm not that scary-looking, am I?" Nyíl felt embarrassed.

"No, I just... I'm just..." Camilla slid a stack of papers, a quill, and an inkwell in front of her, next to the piles of coins. Nyíl stared at the objects. Then at Camilla.

"Write him  _back_ ," she said. Smiled. Left the Trader.

Why did Nyíl tell her about the letter?

Nyíl stared at the paper. Willing words to appear on their own. She could write... Of course she could. All merchants could read and write. Having the skill however was not the same as having the ability. She took up the quill. Rolled it in her fingers. Gripped it in writing position. Rolled it again. Gripped. Trembling hand. Slammed it down on the paper.

She crossed her arms on the counter top and lowered her head on top of them.

Words. Words were all that filled Nyíl's mind for weeks. She'd thought about it, writing him. Would the letter even find him? Where was he? Windhelm? Storming Whiterun right now? Some camp in the middle of nowhere trying to stay warm in the early winter? How would anyone know where he'd be? No official Stormcloak couriers were around. Sending a letter with one may end up with her killed or... Like his fiancée. Tilda. Tilda of Rorikstead. Farmer's daughter. Nyíl was a farmer's daughter...

Tilda.

Dead.

Imperials.

Nyíl wondered if they were still hunting her. Were they holding her parents in cages somewhere, planning to threaten her with their lives? Wouldn't they look here? Ralof was from here. Did they know he saved her? Did they notice her missing? Ralof said the town was destroyed. Dragon. DRAGON. Nyíl didn't see it, but she realized she had heard it. Dragon. Dragons exist. At least one... But if there's one... What was it Ralof said?  _Ulfric knew_. Ulfric planned for more. More attacks. More dragons. What if one came here? There was no Keep here.

Nyíl was suddenly terrified. She remembered the arrival of Whiterun guards to Riverwood two weeks ago. Was it because of the threat of dragons? To kill Stormcloaks on sight? What if Ralof returned?

 _No,_ she remembered,  _Hod said he knew them._ Two of them, anyway. They were local boys, but trained as guards at Whiterun. Sent here, back to their hometown, to protect the villagers. Against dragons, Nyíl guessed. Hoped.

Ralof mentioned taking Whiterun.  _Its location is key._ Key to the war. The Stormcloak Rebellion. Would he return before taking the city? What if he died there without seeing her... No, surely he'd come to see his family. He and his sister were very close. Would they attack the city in winter? No... Maybe... War was not something she knew much about.  _We could use healers like you, you know._ Was Ralof asking her to join the Rebellion? Join the Stormcloaks? She couldn't... He knew that. She couldn't be that close to danger. She was wanted, after all, by the Imperials. Treason? Murder? She didn't care. That would not happen. She couldn't. Not now that thoughts bounced around her mind, like butterflies in a jar, distracting. How would she cope with seeing bleeding men and women? Arrows in flesh. Burnt, scarred, cut, bleeding, bruised, broken, torn. Dead, dying, rotting.

No. No. She couldn't.

"Write him back," Nyíl said to herself. But what could she possibly say? She felt... things... She caressed the smooth yellow-white paper. Like his hair. But what did she feel? What did  _he_ feel? He had saved her. Bruised and broken. Tilda. Just like Tilda. Was that why? Did he feel sorry for her, suffering a similar attack to that of his dead love? Sympathy. That must be it, right?

Nyíl realized she was biting her fingernails. Stubs. Short nothings now. When her hands were not occupied, she chewed at her fingernails. She gripped the quill to stop her biting. What did she feel? Ralof saved her. Didn't need to. Perhaps felt guilty, because of...

 _Did he know?_  Nyíl thought back, back to Helgen, the cage.  _I know how you must feel right now._ He knew. He knew? Why hadn't he said... She told him everything, on the walk back to Riverwood, but... he  _knew._

Nyíl suddenly felt angry. Is that why he saved her? Brought her here? Felt... things... for her? The last thing she wanted was to be  _saved._  A companion, a friend, a lover, perhaps... but a savior? She didn't need to be saved... right?

Nyíl looked at the quill that she gripped too hard. Put it down. Smoothed her dress. She considered the thought, being saved. From danger, from her past, from herself. _Maybe..._ She looked at the neat stacks of coins. The apples. Red green red green, but not in neat rows anymore. Potatoes. Untouched stack of papers. Coin stacks. One two three four.

The realization hit her while staring at the coins. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Ralof had saved her. All of her. Likely her life. Then, her sanity. Or he had tried. She considered herself now, with him gone. Stack of coins. Clean. Dust. Polish.  _Post-traumatic stress,_  he called it. He understood. Everything. All her pain... But friends do that. Friends comfort and talk and hold hands. But not like that... like he held... She felt his phantom touch on her hand. Her cheek. Curl of hair behind her ear. In his arms, watching the clouds.

Nyíl picked up the inkwell. Uncorked the top. It smelled sweet. Quill. Paper.

Dry quill tip touching the paper. She needed words first. Words then ink. Tentative dip of the quill tip. Tap, tap. Drag against inkwell opening. Top of the paper. The letters formed slowly.

_Ralof..._


	13. The Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof receives Nyil's letter.

“Ralof!” Alda shouted. She walked up to him, standing by the quartermaster who was sharpening his axe. “A letter came for you.” Alda handed him the letter and stood there, grinning. Ralof took the letter but did not open it. He looked at Alda.

“What?” He was annoyed by her grinning.

Alda laughed, and composed herself. “It came from Riverwood…” she gave him a knowing look, turned, and walked away. No, not walked. Swaggered. Alda was weird.

Why ever did he tell the other soldiers about Nyíl? Alda and Rogen knew about her, of course, and asked if she had lived. Asked who she was. Why she was captured by Imperials. Caged at Helgen. Since Ralof had been adamant about saving her, they were naturally intrigued.

Ralof tucked the folded, sealed letter in his pouch and waited for his axe to be finished.

Riverwood. From Nyíl? A reply, then. But a month later? Or just his sister. News about the town? He felt a lump form in his throat. Normally no news was good news.

The axe was finished. Ralof returned to his pup tent. He was a troop commander now – not a full officer yet, though – and therefore had a tent of his own. He crawled inside the hide walls and fastened the opening flaps closed. The winters were colder in the mountains. He wrapped a bear fur around his upper body. 

The letter. Ralof’s name on the outside fold. Sealed with red wax and a symbol he recognized as belonging to Lucan Valerius at the Riverwood Trader. Why would Lucan write to him?

The daylight that usually came into the hide tent was fading. Ralof lit a small oil lamp.

His thumb slipped under the seal.

 _Ralof,_  it began. There were spots of ink near his name, as if the quill was held over the paper, paused.

The next few lines were not what Ralof expected.

He thought he recognized the words. A song? Yes, a ballad he heard once, long ago. An old, very old Redguard ballad.  _Was it sung often in Bruma?_  Ralof wondered. He heard the music as he read the words…

> **_[Adapted from original lyrics by Sting and Alison Krauss, “You Will Be My Ain True Love”]_ **
> 
> Ralof,
> 
> You’ll walk unscathed through arrow fire
> 
> No soldier’s blade will cut thee down
> 
> No cutlass wound will mar thy face
> 
> And you will be my own true love
> 
>  
> 
> And as you walk through death’s dark veil
> 
> The mage’s thunder can’t prevail
> 
> And those who hunt thee down will fail
> 
> And you will be my own true love
> 
> N-

These words…. Gerdur had given Nyíl the letter, then. But these words were not Nyíl’s. Could she not think what to write? He didn’t blame her, of course. His own words to her barely made sense, after all.

Ralof looked at the small dots of ink that were dropped near his name. Yes, that’s it. She couldn’t find her own words.

“My own true love,” Ralof repeated the last four words aloud. He lowered himself onto his bearskin bedroll. The oil lamp sat by his shoulder.

_Love._

He stared at the letter. Was this Nyíl’s response?

Then she did feel the same. Or… it was a song about war. Just a ballad. A ballad that has been around for centuries. How many others have heard these words? Heard the song? Sung to them?  _For_  them?

He lay the letter on his chest and sighed, staring at the tent ceiling.

 _No,_  he eventually convinced himself.  _She feels the same._

He refolded the letter and tucked it back into his small pouch attached to his belt.

In several days, they were due to move camp near Whiterun. South-east, he learned. South. Riverwood.

Before the battle began, Ralof would be going home. 


	14. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hod and Gerdur give Nyíl a job at their lumber mill, and Nyíl finally feels at home in Riverwood.

No word from the Stormcloaks. No word about more battles. No dragons. The small town of Riverwood seemed segregated from anything but a peaceful existence.

How long had it been since Nyíl sent her reply to Ralof? Five days? Has the letter found him yet? The courier came to Riverwood once a week. He arrived the day after she wrote the letter. There was no guarantee that the letter would reach him any time soon, if at all. Military camps were secret, but the courier had connections. Unofficially, he was on the Stormcloak side. Nyíl knew he would try his best.

Work became easier for Nyíl. Physically, mentally. Physical labor was especially useful for forgetting one’s troubles. How ironic that when she was at her worst, sinking into insanity, she was forced into bed rest with nothing to do but ruminate on her life, feelings…. And now, with sending her letter to Ralof she felt renewed somehow, and she was also able to help Hod and Gerdur at the lumber mill to repay their kindness. The only thing she didn’t like about this work was Faendal. He had been completely unpleasant ever since Camilla and Sven had their wedding ceremony not long ago. Nyíl just ignored the elf.

Singing while working became habit for Nyíl. Not that she was a good singer, not like Sven, the local bard, but most Redguards could at least carry a tune. Her mother sang all the time….

 

> **_[Original lyrics by Vienna Teng, “Blue Caravan”]_ **
> 
> “Blue, blue caravan  
>  Winding down to the valley of lights  
>  My true love is a man  
>  Who would hold me for ten thousand nights  
>  In the wild, wild wailing of wind  
>  Is a house ‘neath a soft yellow moon  
>  So blue, blue caravan  
>  Won’t you carry me down to him soon”

“SHUT UP,” Faendal shouted at Nyíl. She jumped, not knowing he was standing so near behind her. He was fuming. “Shut up shut up  _shut up!_  All you ever sing is depressing love songs and war ballads! SHUT!!! UP!!!” He threw down his load of logs at Nyíl’s feet and stormed off.

Gerdur walked over. “What was that about?” She was fixing a woodcutting axe.

“Not sure,” said Nyíl. “I suppose, you know, he had a thing for Camilla. Or so I heard.”

“Yeah, but…” Gerdur watched him go. She looked at Nyíl. “Perhaps you can officially have his job. At least you won’t be sneaking off to go hunting all the time.”

Nyíl laughed. “No, well, I used to hunt, sometimes, but it’s not my favorite thing to do. I’m not very good with moving targets.”

“Nor I,” Gerdur smiled. “How’s your side?”

“Achy, but fine. Hilde just makes me put a cooling poultice on it at night, when I work here.” Nyíl brushed wood chips off of her new work clothes.

“Was that Faendal?” Hod asked as he walked down from the mill toward the two women.

“Nyíl scared him off with her singing,” she gave a facetiously teasing look to Nyíl.

“Probably gone hunting again.” The ox of a man sighed. “Forget it. I’ve had enough with him,” Hod said as he wiped his sweaty brow with a cloth. “Give his job to Nyíl.” He took a drink of water from a mug and returned up into the mill.

Nyíl and Gerdur exchanged looks and smiled. “Fine with me,” Gerdur said. “Just don’t ever sing ‘Ragnar the Red’.” She started walking back to her workbench. “I’m so sick of that damned song….”

* * *

 

Two weeks ago, Hod and Gerdur decided to build a small house for Nyíl near the mill, on the west portion of the small island in White River. Originally, Hod had planned for it to be for Sven and Camilla, but they were living comfortably with Sven’s mother. The lumber was there and ready, however, so Hod went through with the plans. Luckily, trees had already been cleared from the area, for the most part, so breaking ground was not that difficult a task.

Gerdur secretly hoped that the house would one day be inhabited by both Nyíl  _and_  Ralof. She was beginning to really like this woman who won her brother’s heart when for so many years she thought it impossible.

Hod was an expert at what he did. With the help of others, Gerdur and Nyíl included, the small house was practically habitable already, if you count having four walls, a roof, and a brand new bed that still smelled of pine trees habitable. Furnishings would come later.

Nyíl was touched by the gift. Ralof and his family have done for her more than she could have ever imagined. Where would she be right now had it not been for all of them?

Sovngarde, for sure.

* * *

 

While working on building the new house, Nyíl had taught Sven a favorite song of hers that her mother taught her. She thought the song would be a wonderful addition to his repertoire, and the people of Riverwood may really like it. It was apparently a popular drinking song in Hammerfell.

The night that Hod declared the outside of the house finished, the town gathered at the inn to relax and celebrate. Sven asked Nyíl if she wanted to sing the song she taught him while he played his lute. He’d been practicing, apparently. Nyíl blushed. Performing was not something she was used to doing. Just singing. For no one. Just herself and the wind. She found herself agreeing but immediately regretted it.

Sven stood up in front of the crowd and cleared his throat. He took up his lute and began to strum chords that matched exactly the tune Nyíl sang to him.

Nyíl took a swig of ale, put the bottle back onto the bar counter, and walked toward Sven. He saw how nervous she was and spoke for her.  
  
“This new song comes all the way from Hammerfell, courtesy of Nyíl. It’s called ‘Down by the Riverside’.” He bowed with his lute to her, still strumming, and smiled for encouragement.

At the right time between Sven’s strums, Nyíl began the tune.

> **_[Adapted from original lyrics by Agnes Obel, “Riverside”]_ **
> 
> “Down by the river by the boats  
>  Where everybody goes to be alone  
>  Where you won’t see any rising sun  
>  Down to the river we will run  
>   
>  “When by the water we drink to the dregs  
>  Look at the stones on the river bed  
>  I can tell from your eyes  
>  You’ve never been by the riverside”

Someone in the crowd drummed out a soft beat on a table. 

> “Down by the water the riverbed  
>  Somebody calls you somebody says  
>  Swim with the current and float away  
>  Down by the river everyday”

Sven’s voice then joined in.

> “Oh my Gods I see how everything is torn in the river deep  
>  And I don’t know why I go the way  
>  Down by the riverside”

Nyíl was left to solo again.

> “When that old river runs pass your eyes  
>  To wash off the dirt on the riverside  
>  Go to the water so very near  
>  The river will be your eyes and ears  
>   
>  “I walk to the borders on my own  
>  To fall in the water just like a stone  
>  Chilled to the marrow in them bones  
>  Why do I go here all alone”

Joined by Sven again. The anonymous drummer picking up the beat, stronger now.

> “Oh my Gods I see how everything is torn in the river deep  
>  And I don’t know why I go the way  
>  Down by the riverside
> 
> "Down by the riverside…”

Nyíl finished singing and Sven ended with a strumming flourish. The crowd in the inn took a moment, but soon were all standing, clapping, saying things to Sven like “Finally a new tune,” and “You should sing with her more often.” Nyíl suddenly felt bad for the bard who had apparently overplayed his tunes. He had a better singing voice than her, but Nyíl received the majority of the compliments that evening. Faendal, to her non-surprise and relief, was nowhere to be seen.

Camilla was talking to Nyíl and Sven about the song, the possibility of more, but suddenly stopped speaking. Her eyes fixed on something behind the singers and the crowd.

Nyíl turned around and became frozen in her place. “Ralof,” she almost gasped. He arrived silently behind the crowd. Had he heard her singing? She was mortified.

Ralof stepped through the separating crowd, around the central hearth, toward the front of the inn where Nyíl stood.

As he approached, Nyíl began to ask, “When did you—” but before she could finish her sentence, Ralof took her head in both hands and kissed her.

A long, deep kiss. Ensnared by his strong hands, Nyíl could hardly resist. As if she would want to…. Her hands instinctively landed on his own, then slowly moved to his upper arms. His muscles were too wide for her entire hands to wrap around, but she held on. She refused to let go. Refused to  _be_  let go. No other thoughts existed in her mind just then. For the first time in weeks, she truly knew peace.

And then the crowd. Roaring, cheering, crying, clapping. Had they been doing that for long? Ralof’s lips lifted off Nyíl’s and, suddenly aware of the audience, turned into a smile. Ralof was blushing. Nyíl thought if he was blushing, she must have looked like a tomato.

“Hello again,” Ralof said to Nyíl. She looked into his eyes. They were sparkling again, but not like the last time. She stood on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and found his lips again.

Lips still attached, Ralof lifted Nyíl into his arms just as he did when they first met. The crowd made a path for them. Someone opened the inn door. Alone, outside the inn, Ralof broke the kiss and smiled. He walked down the steps and turned left, down the road. Nyíl laid her head on his shoulder. Ralof started to turn left again butNyíl remembered….

“Wait,” she said, her head lifted up and she looked toward the mill.

“Forget something at the inn?” Ralof asked.

“No,” she said, coyly, grinning up at him. “Put me down, I have a surprise for you….”

Ralof’s eyebrow rose, but he did as she said. Nyíl took his hand in hers and started for the bridge across the river. She began to walk faster. “Where are we going?” Ralof laughed.

Nyíl just kept walking, faster, across the wood plank bridge, but then stopped. There, in front of some trees, was her new house. Unfurnished, but, standing.

She looked up at Ralof, touched his cheek with her palm, and said, “Welcome home.”


	15. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyil and Ralof finally find themselves able to love again. [Warning: NSFW].

Nyíl opened the door to the new house. In the cool evening breeze,  _e_ _verything_  smelled of pine trees. The bed was nothing more than a frame with a straw mattress and deerskin coverings, but it was hers.

Still holding onto Ralof’s hand, she led him inside. With her foot, she shut the door behind them. Ralof walked forward, loosening his grip on her hand.

“When did Hod build this?” Ralof asked, inspecting the craftsmanship.

“We finished just this evening,” Nyíl said. “He built it for  _me_ ….” She walked over to Ralof, who was currently running his hands along a crossbeam. She took his other hand into hers. He turned to her. “They gave me a job, Ralof, at their mill. Half the town helped build this house.” She looked into his eyes. “It could be yours, too.”

Ralof let her words settle in his mind. His hand left the crossbeam and rested upon her cheek, flushed from running. Or…. His thumb felt the curve of her blushing face. “Ours?” He asked Nyíl.

“If you like…” she answered, eyes locked onto his.

In the dim sconce candle light – there was only one at the moment – Nyíl’s eyes were no longer silver-grey, but the color of the northern sea. Ralof’s, a deep blue-violet.

Ralof’s hold on Nyíl’s cheek lightened, and his hand flowed to her shoulder, eyes following. There, his fingers played with a rogue dark curl, black in the dim light, then traveled to her neck. He could feel her pulse quicken.

His eyes returned to hers.

“I like…” he responded. His eyes sparkled again, matching his smile. His dimples made another rare appearance.

Nyíl was flooded with new emotions she couldn’t make sense of. She wanted to cry, but, from happiness. Utter, complete, and insurmountable happiness.

Again they kissed. No longer forceful, but gentle, serene. Ralof wrapped his arms around her waste and, lifting her slightly, spun halfway around, setting her in front of the bed.

_Our bed._

Ralof kissed her again.

_Our home._

It’s been too long since he felt this happy.

When he spoke to Gerdur before departing for Windhelm, handed her the letter written for Nyíl, Ralof told Gerdur that, with Nyíl, he finally felt whole again. Unfortunate circumstances brought her to him, but, the things he felt when with her were unmistakeable.

Gerdur had held him tight that evening, before he left the inn. Her brother was finally healed.

Through their kiss, Nyíl noticed Ralof’s face was damp. Her hand rose to his cheek. Tears.

She could no longer hold back her own. Though her lips were still pressed to his, a sob escaped Nyíl’s mouth. Ralof broke the kiss to see what was wrong.

Crying. Were they both crying? But, there, a smile. Nyíl’s tears were from happiness, too.

Ralof couldn’t contain himself any longer. He kissed her more forcefully now, and Nyíl matched his passion.

He unbuckled his belt and straps that held down his blue cloak. His axe, held by a sort of loop, landed with a clunk when the leather straps were loosened. Nyíl lofted the cloak above Ralof in one swift movement that caused it to catch air and float gracefully to the wooden floor. Ralof lifted the long leather tunic above this head, catching the mail shirt at the same time, and the remainder of his uniform landed on the floor with a thud.

In the dim candlelight his skin appeared golden. The hair on his chest now looked chestnut brown. Hints of old wounds and some newer ones revealed themselves to Nyíl. She traced the remainder of the minor wound on his left torso, the line of the now-healed deep gash on his left thigh, and a newer cut on his right forearm.

Ralof brushed long curls from Nyíl’s shoulder and kissed her neck. A gasping moan escaped her lips and her eyelids fluttered. Ralof’s lips found the other side of her neck. He reached around her back and found the toggles that closed the back of Nyíl’s work shirt. One. Two. Three. His lips met hers again. She undid the ties of her new buckskin work pants. His lips left hers only to lift her shirt above and off. Nyíl stepped out of her work boots and wriggled out of her pants. Ralof gazed at her a moment, smiled, then stepped out of his own boots.

Nyíl clutched Ralof’s hand, reclined on the bed, and guided him to join her.

The weight of his body on hers felt protective, comforting. His kisses along her bare skin sent shivers deep within her.

Her hands slid down his back and found his undergarment. She slipped her hands beneath the fabric and felt the round, muscular warmth they contained. With a nudge, the cloth lowered.

Ralof gently lifted Nyíl off her back to remove her undershirt. His warm mouth enclosed around a nipple, which Nyíl realized was cold in comparison from exposure in the new house with no hearthfire in the middle of winter. Her arms wrapped around Ralof’s upper back, massaging the rippling muscles, encountering faint ridges left by old wounds.

His lips left her breast and traveled south, down her torso, then up again, between her breasts, suckled the other nipple, and down again. He stopped when he encountered her underwear. Unlike his own linens, hers were rabbit skin. Ralof’s hand brushed across the soft, thin hide. Nyíl took his hand in hers, placed it on her hip, and then proceeded to slip one side of the underwear down, passed her hipbone. Ralof slid the other side down, then the whole piece, down her legs, onto the bed.

Ralof turned back to Nyíl. So open and vulnerable before him, but completely at ease. Her fingers traced the top of his linens which remained halfway down his midsection. The only stitch of clothing left between them. He untucked a corner and unwrapped the linen, tossing it swiftly behind him.

Nyíl sat up and kissed him again. Ralof felt the urgency in her embrace. He lowered her, away from him, onto a down-filled pillow. Contrasted with the white cotton, her hair formed a dark cloud of curls. His left palm pressed against her cheek, and his right drifted down her torso, ending between her legs. They kissed again, tongues exploring each other’s mouth, his right hand waking sensations Nyíl had long forgotten.

Nyíl became lost in Ralof’s touch. His lips lifted from hers to caress her chest, her neck, ending with a light kiss on her forehead. She opened her eyes to find his in front of hers, gazing back. She smiled. With a slow movement, Ralof replaced his right hand with his manhood.

Slowly, slowly. Small sounds of pleasure escaped Nyíl’s mouth. Her hand grasped his upper arm, squeezing in natural reflex. Ralof moaned. Slowly, their hips met. Again. Deeper. Again. Cries of pleasure escalated with their movement. Ralof buried his forehead in her hair. His hot breath flowed down Nyíl’s neck. Their hands met and fingers intertwined, clenching with each thrust. Faster. Harder.

Nyíl’s back arched instinctively as she cried out. Tears squeezed out of her shut eyes. Ralof continued his pace. Her free hand slid up his neck and grasped at his hair, fingers gripping and loosening with each wave of pleasure. Harder. Deeper. Nyíl moaned with every thrust. His chest was pressed against hers. His own moans became quiet grunts.

With a forceful thrust, Ralof burst out in a guttural moan. Another. Another. Slowing. Slowing. His forehead lay against hers. Their free hands burying fingers into one another’s hair. Their other hands still clenched.

Muscles relaxed. They remained in a heap of heavy breathing for a long time. Slowly, they both became aware of the chilling temperatures. Ralof lifted himself and rolled to Nyíl’s side and off the bed. She watched him as he went to retrieve his blue cloak from the floor. He returned and draped the cloak over them. She curled into his side, head resting in the nook between his chest and arm, which wrapped around her.

His hand lifted her chin from his chest so he could look upon her face. His fingers traced the contours of her cheek and jaw. He thought of what to say at this moment, this perfect moment, but every word he knew escaped his mind. Sensing his unease, Nyíl propped herself up on her elbow. She kissed the warm, roughened palm of his hand and placed it over her heart.

The words suddenly came to her. She looked into his blue-violet eyes. “Until I die.” She repeated the words from his letter.

Ralof smiled. “Until I die.”

But the light in his eyes suddenly vanished. He frowned, and looked away.

“What?” Nyíl asked.

Ralof sighed. “We attack Whiterun at dawn.” He turned back to her. “I have to leave, and soon.”

Nyil’s heart sank into her stomach. “But…” she looked down.

“I only got leave for three hours, and even that was pushing it. Galmar was  _not_  happy.”

“Galmar?”

“Galmar Stone-First, our commanding officer.”

“Oh,” Nyíl responded. “You can’t just sleep here?”

Ralof shook his head. “I can’t miss the call to arms. I have a troop to lead.”

“Oh,” Nyíl said again.

Ralof lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “I want to stay. More than anything. You  _know_ that…”

The sadness in his eyes told Nyíl he was telling the truth.

In one graceful movement she was off of the bed and walking toward the pile of clothing on the floor.

She gathered up everything but Ralof’s belt straps with axe attached and piled them onto the bed next to him. She found his undergarment hanging off to foot of the mattress and held it out to him.

He just stared at her.

“Go on,” she said. “I’m not going to be the one to get you in trouble with your boss.” A slight grin formed across her mouth. Ralof couldn’t help but laugh.

He rose and took the linens from her. She helped him wrap the cloth around his midsection. Mail shirt. Gods, it was heavy. Tunic. Cloak. She retrieved the complex system of belt straps and axe. Finished. She took in the sight of him a while longer.

Ralof stepped closer to her, and kissed her one last time. “As soon as the Jarl lays down his arms, I’m coming home to you.” Ralof held her tight against his body. “That’s a promise,” he spoke into her ear.

And with that, he was gone.


	16. The Dragonborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn stops by Riverwood en route to Whiterun.

Nyíl stood naked in the doorway of her new home, watching Ralof cross the bridge toward town. Her flesh was frozen in the winter wind. The sky was overcast and there was no moon to aid her vision. As Ralof turned right, the houses and mill hid him from her sight.

Gone. Again.

The battle for Whiterun.

Nyíl returned to her new house. Teeth chattering. She found her leather clothes and put them on. Not warm enough. How drastic the difference was between winter days and winter nights, even in this southern river valley. She had no fire-starting kit yet in this new house, so she decided to spend the night at the inn. Locals were charged a discount rate of one gold per night. She could afford that. She quickly walked the short distance to the inn.

Once settled in her rented room, Nyíl wondered what sort of resistance the Stormcloaks would meet. She hoped for the sake of the townspeople that the Jarl and his guards would not resist too long. She’d never been to Whiterun. She’d heard good things about the town, though, and hoped one day to see it. Intact.

Before the Imperials sacked Bruma, Nyíl paid little attention to the goings-on of the civil war in Skyrim. Keeping along the southern road usually meant she was safe…. Neither army seemed to care much about the city of Riften. She smiled to herself when thinking about Brynjolf and his guild… perhaps they were the reason why Riften was left alone.

Nyíl felt somewhat hungry so she bought some stew from Orgnar. She was just about to sit down to supper when the inn door opened with a bang. Nyíl, Orgnar and the other patrons turned to look and sounded a collective gasp when they saw the figure standing at the entrance. The man was tall, muscular, and armed to the ear in iron. His helm was topped with two stylized ox horns made out of mammoth tusk. A quill of arrows and iron broadsword were strapped to his back, and a longbow hugged his shoulder. This was not a common sight in an inn.

The armored man walked toward the counter and removed his helm. He had dark auburn hair and vivid green eyes. He nodded at Nyíl as he passed her. He laid his helm on the bar counter and sat on a stool. Nyíl realized he was filthy. Was that ash dusting his tawny skin and armor? The back of his armor appeared burnt.

“Water, please,” the man said in a gruff voice. Nyíl remembered her supper and sat at the table, sneaking glances at the man between mouthfuls. Orgnar handed him a mug of water. “Thanks,” he said before chugging the entire mugful. “More.” Orgnar obliged.

“Any food for you tonight, then?” Orgnar asked. The man nodded.

“What’s on the menu?”

Orgnar filled his mug for a third time. “Skeever liver stew.” The man looked up at the barkeep, unsure if he was joking. A moment later, the man nodded, and a bowl was placed before him.

Delphine walked over. “You look like you could use an ale.”

The man half-shrugged in response, but added a solid, “No.” He drank his stew straight from the bowl.

Delphine made a “hmph” sound. “We don’t get a lot of travelers here in Riverwood.”

“What’s it to you?” the man grumbled.

“I’m the innkeeper. It’s my business to keep track of strangers. The war keeps most folks away, these days…. So what’s your story? Just here to… relax?”

The man slammed his mug onto the bar counter.

“Hey, watch it!” Orgnar was not amused. Nyíl was startled by the sudden noise and turned to see the stranger stand, slowly. He stared down at Delphine. Towered over her, in fact.

He grabbed his horned iron helm, turned to Delphine and said, “Just passing through to Whiterun.” He tossed several gold coins on the bar counter. The man turned to leave and held Nyíl ‘s gaze as he passed.

Nyíl stood from the bench and followed the man outside the inn.

“Wait!” she called to him.

He turned, and walked up to her. “What?”

Nyíl realized she was staring into his emerald-green eyes. “You’re… You’re headed to Whiterun… for the battle?”  
  
The man narrowed his eyes at the woman, unsure how to answer.

“I, um, I mean,” she gave a nervous laugh and rubbed her neck. What if this man was with the Imperials? His armor was generic, neither blue nor red. There was no way to know….

The man’s expression suddenly softened and his grimace turned to a slight smile, clearly amused at the woman’s nervousness. “Yes,” he replied.

Nyíl’s eyes widened in some combination of relief and curiosity. She tried to untie her tongue. “If… I mean… Good luck. In battle, I mean. And… and if you see a man named Ralof…”  
  
At the sound of Ralof’s name, the man changed his demeanor. Nyíl saw recognition in the man’s expression. “Yes, Ralof, I know him.”

Nyíl stared again. “Oh, well, then, tell him I said… well, you know… good luck.” She cleared her throat.

The man smiled. “Is that all?” Nyíl stood there, nodding. Silent. “Alright then.” The man turned to leave a final time, donned his helm, unhitched his horse’s reins from a tree branch, and left for Whiterun.

Nyíl watched him go.  _He knows Ralof?_ She wondered how. He wasn’t dressed like the Stormcloaks.

She shivered. Nyíl returned to her stew outside the inn. Cold now. She ate it anyway.

Worry plagued her mind that night.  _Who was that man? Why didn’t I ask his name?_ His emerald eyes were burned into her memory.

Suddenly Nyíl regretted not joining Ralof. She could have been a healer for the Stormcloaks, he said. She could be there now, with him, there to heal any of his wounds. But wouldn’t she have been a distraction? Would he have been able to fight with a clear mind if she were there? As it stands now, she was safe in Riverwood. He knew this. Was likely comforted by this knowledge.

But that strange man. Obviously a warrior. Gods, she hoped he was on Ralof’s side.

* * *

 

“Hey, look who it is,” Endar elbowed Ralof and nodded toward the south. An ironclad man approached on horseback. Ralof started toward the approaching warrior who slowed the horse and stopped at a wooden fence, dismounted, and tied the reins to a post.

“Dragonborn,” Ralof extended his right arm in greeting.

The warrior removed his horned helm. “Ralof,” the man returned the greeting and they grasped one another’s right forearm.

“We were worried you would not come,” Endar joined in greeting the warrior.

“How could I miss it?” The green-eyed man smiled.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your tent,” said Ralof.

“Thanks,” he replied. A moment later, he added, “By the way, Ralof, Nyíl says ‘hello’.”

Ralof smiled. “You were in Riverwood? How did you meet her?”

“The inn. Awful stew.”

Ralof laughed.

“You didn’t say how pretty she was, Ralof,” said the warrior. His eyebrows raised and lowered. Endar chuckled. Ralof gave his friend an annoyed look. “And I told you before, don’t call me ‘Dragonborn’.”

“Right, right. Sorry, Brandr.”  
  
The warrior, Brandr, smiled. “No harm.”

Brandr placed his gear by his tent. “So, Ralof,” the trio of men went to sit by the campfire. “Did she return your feelings, in the end?” His green eyes sparkled. Faint crow’s feet accentuated the sides of the man’s eyes. “She certainly seemed…. anxious… when she learned I was headed to Whiterun.”

Ralof smiled, blushed, and stoked the fire. He cleared his throat. “She did indeed.”

Brandr gave Ralof a congratulatory slap on the back. “Ha! How could she not, eh? Just look at that face,” he framed Ralof’s face for Endar. The men laughed.

A few moments passed. “I’m sorry I had to leave you all back at Korvanjund. I had to get the crown back to Ulfric and then travel straight away to Markarth.”

“A long journey,” said Ralof.

“How is your cousin?” Endar asked.

“Poor Vorstag, I’ll never understand why he can’t stay out of trouble,” Brandr sighed.

“Seems trouble-making is in the family blood.” Ralof grinned.

“Hey, now,” Brandr held up his hands. “I told you, I was merely doing business at that mine.”

“Since when do businessmen wear iron armor?” Ralof teased.

Brandr straightened his back. “Since my business requires killing people who don’t want to die.”

“Hmph,” Endar said. He didn’t like mercenaries, but Brandr has proven himself to be a decent man. “I never got to ask before. How did you get your armor back, anyway? I thought the Imperials took it from you at Darkwater.”

“They did. I took it back.”

“I still can’t believe what you said to Hadvar,” Ralof laughed.

“Hadvar. What a joke, he was. ‘Come with me! Join the Imperial Army! Kill the Stormcloaks!’ I won’t repeat what he said about Ulfric… He thought I followed him into the Keep, but instead I just ran for it. That’s when my armor got burnt. Grabbed a horse and left.”

“If only you knew then who you are…” Endar said.

Brandr looked up at him. “That dragon looked different from the others. More… worn. Older, maybe. None of the others I’ve encountered used the Thu’um like that one did.”

The men looked at him, confused. “Shout. That’s the word the Greybeards use for the Storm Voice. Dragon’s words of power.” The men nodded.

Endar yawned. Ralof looked to the moon. “We should sleep now,” he said, standing. “We attack at dawn.”

The others stood. “See you then,” Brandr said before retiring to his tent.


	17. Hero's Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn returns to Riverwood. [Warning: NSFW].

A commotion beyond the mill. Nyíl and Gerdur walked to see what was going on. There he was again, the green-eyed warrior, shouting at a guard.

_Was he always so angry?_ Nyíl wondered. Then she realized…  _Whiterun! He was at Whiterun!_

Nyíl ran up and separated the two men who looked about to bite each other’s heads off. “Hey! Cool off. What’s going on?” She looked at the green-eyed man. “What’s happened? What of Whiterun? Where’s Ralof?”

The guard, the one Nyíl did not know well, was stunned by her intrusion. “What?” the guard shook his head. “This man is a wanted criminal! He killed the operator at Goldenrock Mine  _and_ is a known fugitive of the Imperial Army!”

“Oh, come now,” the green-eyed man said. “Everyone knows that the Goldenrock operator was a thief, and don’t get me started on the whole Imperial Army thing…. I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.” A grin spread across his face as he planted a coin purse in the guard’s hand.

“Well, I…” the guard stammered, and felt the weight of the coin purse. “Fine, Brandr, just this once I let you off. But I’ve got my eye on you….”

The green-eyed man laughed as he removed his horned helm and watched the guard leave. He turned to Nyíl.. “Nice to see you again, Nyíl.” He bowed gallantly. “I’m Brandr, by the way.”

Nyíl stared. “What? How….”  
  
“Ralof mentioned you weeks ago. I told you I knew him. He returns your greeting,” he smiled.

_He really did know Ralof!_ “Where is he? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, stayed in Whiterun to help clean up.”

“Clean up?”  
  
“The bodies.” Nyíl’s eyes widened. The green-eyed man laughed. “Ohh, you’re cute when you’re terrified, you know?” Her expression shifted to one of irritation which just made the man laugh harder. Brandr composed himself. “Not many died, some guards, mostly Imperial replacements for their normal crew.”  
  
“And the city still stands?”

“Of course. No quarrel with the citizens. No quarrel with anybody, really. Even the Jarl lives.” He laughed. “He just has a new house.”

Brandr began to walk towards the inn. Nyíl followed. “So, when is he coming home? Did he say?”

“Wow, you’ve really got it bad, hmm?”  
  
“I… I just—”

Brandr laughed again. “Adorable.” He tousled her dark curls. She swatted him away. “A few days. I think you’ll live.”

She didn’t follow him the rest of the way to the inn.

* * *

 

Nyíl’s head was spinning. Why did she drink so much ale? And then wine?

The people of Riverwood celebrated well into the night after hearing the news of the Stormcloak’s success. Nyíl felt the night’s festivities making a reappearance and —  _splat –_ a mix of ale and wine found its way into a bucket. The taste left in her mouth was beyond awful. She crawled out of bed to take the bucket out back and to pass water. Her head was in a fog. She might as well have been sleep-walking.

She re-entered the inn and dragged herself back to bed. She tried to sleep more but the sound of loud moaning broke into the quiet morning. Through her fog, she tried to make sense of the sounds. Man. Woman. Nyíl’s head throbbed.

Moaning. Moaning. Even through two closed doors and the length of the main hall the sounds were as close as if in her own room. Cries of pleasure. Did she hear a bed knocking? Nyíl went into the main hall. The sounds were coming from Delphine’s room. Orgnar emerged from the basement, listened for the moaning, shook his head and went back down.

Nyíl went to pour herself some water from the pitcher on the bar counter. A final triumphant duet of moans invaded Nyíl’s ears and aching head. She fumbled for the stash of clean mugs. Nyíl chugged a mugful of water, then began to pour another.

_Thud!_

Nyíl jumped at the loud noise. She was startled to see Brandr emerge from Delphine’s room wearing his horned iron helm. And nothing else. A big smile crossed his face when he saw Nyíl.

She realized too late that she poured too much water into the mug and it spilled across the bar counter. Her eyes were fixed on his helm. The man stretched and yawned. Every muscle rippled. And…

_Sweet Mara!_

Nyíl’s eyes were frozen wide, unable to look away from his still-engorged manhood. She swallowed. Her hand gripped the pitcher handle, the other hand clenched a rag she had used to soak up the spilled water. Her fingers dug into the damp cloth.

Brandr laughed as he approached Nyíl. “You alright there, lass?” Nyíl’s face flushed in embarrassment. He smiled as he took the mug of water for himself. “Like a deer at the business end of an arrow…” He winked and strutted back to Delphine’s room with Nyíl’s mug.

Nyíl felt awful, embarrassed for staring at the man. She ran to her room and slammed the door shut. She locked it, and slowly sank to the floor, leaning on the wooden door.

She felt annoyed at Brandr. What kind of man struts around naked after…. What kind of man wears his helm during…. She almost felt angry. She suddenly wished for Ralof’s presence to erase the visual memory of Brandr’s green eyes and his….

_By the Divines he was enormous!_   _And he had already…._

Nyíl clutched at her abdomen. Surely a man that big would hurt a woman. She found herself concerned for Delphine, but her worry abated when she heard another round of moans begin. She clenched her eyes shut as if this would stop the noise from pervading her mind. Nyíl crawled back into bed, lay on her side, and held a pillow over her head. She didn’t want to think about Brandr and Delphine. Brandr and his horned helm. Brandr and his huge….

The moans seeped through the down pillow. Nyíl realized it was useless to block it out. She started to gather her belongings but her head started spinning. She caught herself from falling by gripping a wooden shelf. Right in front of her face was a wine bottle. She grabbed the bottle and slid back under the bed covers.

Long drag from the wine bottle.

_Don’t think about it,_  she ordered herself.

Another drag.

It was futile. The image was burned into her memory. The moans did not help.

She forced thoughts of Ralof into her mind. She saw him in the dim candle light in her new house. Laying on the pallet in Hilde’s house. Standing in front of her after she sang at the inn.

The memories comforted her. She began to wonder in a more clinical way how Brandr compared to the other men she’s known. Certainly bigger than Brynjolf. She smiled at the thought of her friend. Brynjolf could not boast a substantial size, but what he did with what he had…. The memory sent shivers deep down within her. She took another sip of wine.

Brynjolf was her first. He was older than Nyíl, but not by much. A similar age to Ralof, she thought. She always trusted Brynjolf, completely. She and him had been friends since her childhood when she traveled with her father to Riften. They had made love one night on a whim, two trusting friends simply finding comfort in one another’s arms. She wondered if he ever managed to win Sapphire’s heart. Unlikely. Sapphire’s heart seemed more interested in the ladies.

And then there was Cynric, Nyíl’s first real lover. Never really together, though, as they both traveled too often for any kind of consistency. But whenever they were both in Riften, they came together as if no time had passed. They never truly loved one another, not romantically, but their partnership was easy, simple. No expectations. Their relationship continued until he was caught on a guild job. She hoped he was out of prison now….

Ralof….

An image of the two Imperials who attacked her invaded her thoughts. Nyíl shook them away.

Ralof had been so gently, but strong, too. Her thoughts turned to their brief moment together in her new house. Enclosed in his arms, watching the clouds float by. Being carried in his arms. Twice. Ralof had become her rock. Her anchor. Even now, with her mind being bombarded by images of a naked, teasing Brandr, and the memory of her attack which will never be forgotten, Nyíl was comforted by thoughts of the Stormcloak soldier.

She hugged herself tight beneath the warm blankets. She had almost forgotten the moaning that kept on in Delphine’s room. Another sip of wine. “A few days,” she repeated what Brandr had told her. Of course Ralof would help if he was needed. That’s just who he was. She began to replay their intimate moment together in her mind. She felt his phantom breath on her neck. The heat of his mouth on her breast. She took several sips of wine. Her hand traced the path of the phantom sensations.

Nyíl heard Brandr grunting.  _The man is an animal,_  she thought. She mentally compared his size to Ralof’s. Bigger, obviously. She doubted any human man could compare to the warrior. But Ralof… Like Cynric, Ralof complimented her body perfectly. Large size is impressive, but it’s not everything.

She felt Ralof’s phantom touch between her legs. She slipped one hand beneath her undershirt and massaged her breast, played with her nipple. Again she felt Ralof’s mouth where her hand lay. Her other hand slid beneath her pants and rabbit skin underwear. The memory of Ralof’s touch was fresh. She felt his lips caress her neck, her stomach…. Delphine moaned louder in her room. Nyíl felt Ralof enter her, slowly, agonizingly slow. She massaged her breast and the hot crevice between her legs. Delphine and Brandr sounded their duet, louder. Nyíl bucked her hips against her hand and Ralof’s phantom body. She turned her head to bite the pillow. She imagined Ralof on top of her. Her fingers played in and around where Ralof had touched her, teased her, thrust against her.

Her memory exploded in a white hot flash. Her muscles convulsed and she cried out. In the back of her mind she heard Brandr and Delphine do the same. She clenched her breast with one hand, squeezed her other hand between her thighs, and lay there in bed, panting. Nyíl ached for the real Ralof. She suddenly realized that if she could hear Brandr and Delphine…. “Oh, gods…” she buried her face in the pillow. Had they heard her? Immediately she was terrified Brandr would come parading in with his erection pointed at her and his tawny skin glistening with sweat from physical exertion. She waited for the door to open, but was calmed by sight of the closed latch. She relaxed back onto the bed.

She doubted she’d ever be able to face Brandr again. Not just because he may have just heard her…. but every time she thought of him, all she saw was his engorged manhood pointed directly at her.  _The business end of an arrow_ , he had said. Nyíl laughed.  _You got that right._

Nyíl cleaned the wetness between her legs and straightened her clothes. She realized she better eat something soon before the wine she just drank made her feel worse. She put on her boots, placed two gold coins onto the bed – one of the room, one for the wine – and walked out into the main hall.

There they were, Delphine and Brandr. Dressed now, thankfully. Delphine was flushed a bright red and was tying her hair back in a simple ponytail. Brandr had removed his horned helm but the rest of him was covered in a simple tunic.

“Morning, Nyíl,” Delphine said in a lofty voice. She was no longer ornery, Nyíl noticed. Perhaps Brandr was just what she needed.

“Good morning,” Nyíl replied before heading for the inn door.

“Aren’t you staying for a bit of breakfast, Nyíl?” Brandr grinned naughtily at her. The way he said her name, stressing the last syllable in the way the elves she’s known always do, hanging onto that last ‘L’ sound…. Something about the man unnerved her.

Embarrassed and a bit disgusted, Nyíl grabbed a loaf of bread, tossed a gold coin on the table and left for work.

Delphine handed Brandr a meat sandwich. “What’s wrong with her?”

Brandr just laughed under his breath. 


	18. Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof explains to Nyíl who Brandr really is and what it means for all of Skyrim, and the world. [Warning: NSFW].

The green-eyed warrior told Nyíl the truth. Ralof returned several days after Brandr arrived. That night they made love most of the evening and slept through most of the morning. Her new house was furnished now, and a hearthfire warmed the small one-room home. For the bed, Nyíl made a thick quilt and mattress pad filled with tufts of tundra cotton. She and Ralof snuggled together under the warm quilt and left their embrace only to add new logs to the fire. It was mid-morning when they were both fully awake. They ate sweetrolls in bed for breakfast.

“So tell me about Whiterun,” Nyíl said.

“What would you like to know?” asked Ralof.

“Well, I suppose about the fight, if you lost any soldiers, how Brandr came to know you before then, what will become of the city now…” she traced the lines of scars along his naked flesh.

Ralof recalled for her the events of the battle. The need to retain the city’s present defenses, not wanting to hurt civilians or destroy their houses, the struggle at the drawbridge, and finally how Jarl Balgruuf the Greater laid down his arms. “We lost two soldiers,” Ralof cleared his throat. “New recruits, foolish boys who neglected to raise their shields against a rain of arrows.” He kissed Nyíl’s forehead. “That’s why I had to stay longer than expected. Funeral arrangements. For them, and the fallen Imperials.”

Nyíl settled into the nook between his shoulder and chest. “And Brandr?”

Ralof chuckled and his chest vibrated under Nyíl’s head. “Brandr. More like ‘Fire-Brand’. He can be a bit of a handful. Actually, he was at Helgen, with us.”

“He was?”

“Oh yes. I didn’t recognize him at first when I met him the second time…. The Imperials had him in custody before they captured myself, Ulfric and the others. He was bound and gagged, and unconscious when I first saw him. Just before we reached Helgen, he came to. That’s how I recognized him eventually, by his unusual green eyes. In the chaos, I never had the opportunity to learn his name. Then he disappeared.”

“When did you meet again?”

“Not long after I left for Windhelm, at an old ruin not far from Whiterun. There was an artifact Ulfric needed. He sent Brandr to help us retrieve it. Good thing too…. We had to fight off some Imperials, and….”

Nyíl looked up at his face. “And?”

Ralof tensed a moment. “Draugrs.”  
  
“Drawgers?”

Ralof was confused at her confusion. “You know, after-walkers….”

“You saw  _zombies_?!” Nyíl felt an overwhelming sense of terror of the events that had already transpired.

“No, not quite,” he tried to explain. “These are not infected corpses. Draugrs are long-dead mummified Nord warriors who, through some sort of magic, rise from the dead to defend their crypt if it’s intruded.”

Nyíl’s fingernails dug into Ralof’s torso. Though she’d never seen a zombie, or heard of these Drawgers, the thought of corpses walking after death terrified her more than any other thing, living or not. “Why would you go in to such a place?”

Ralof shrugged. “Not my call. Ulfric said the artifact held in the ruins would somehow aid in the Rebellion. How could I refuse?”

Nyíl didn’t respond. Her fingers relaxed and traced figures into his chest hair.

“It was Brandr who really saved us, though. One of the Draugrs used magic shouts on us. Nearly knocked the wind out of me. Brandr shouted right back.”

Nyíl laughed. “Shouted? That does seem like Brandr. He was so angry when I first saw him.”

“Before Whiterun?” Nyíl nodded. Ralof continued. “He had just come from getting his cousin out of prison, then. Apparently he’d had to do that several times already. I would be angry too…. Anyway, Brandr has been having some trouble coming to terms with who he is.”

“Who he is?” Nyíl’s interest was piqued. She sat up in the bed. The quilt lay at her waist, baring her breasts. “And who is he? Whenever I see him, he seems so…. so….”

“Audacious,” Ralof suggested.

Nyíl laughed. “I was going to say ‘cheeky’.” She avoided the Bruman slang ‘cocky’, which is what Brandr really was, in every way….

Ralof smiled. He played with a dark curl that hung over her left breast. “He’s not always so ‘cheeky’, and often quite humble, actually. But I suppose a mix of boldness and humility comes with being the Dragonborn.”

“Dragon-born? What do you mean?”

“You never heard the legends?” Nyíl shook her head. “ _Tsk tsk!_ ” Ralof feigned disappointment and smiled. “Well then, my love, I think it’s time for a little education.”

In a swift movement he scooped Nyíl by the waist and settled her on top of him. She giggled. “The Dragonborn,” Ralof began, “Is a mortal man or woman born with the blood and soul of a dragon.” He caressed her waist.

“Dragon soul! Really!?” Nyíl considered the idea. “Makes sense, then, Brandr being… well, Brandr.” She chuckled and ran her fingers lightly across his chest.

Ralof grinned. “I suppose. But that’s how he can shout.”

“What do you mean,” Nyíl laughed. “Anyone can shout.” She pinched one of Ralof’s nipples. Ralof made an “mmph!” noise and gently slapped Nyíl’s rear in retaliation. They grinned mischievously at one another.

“I think you have to see it to understand,” he said.

“ _See_  a shout?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ralof massaged her buttocks. Nyíl could feel his manhood stiffen beneath her.

“Sooo,” Nyíl moaned softly. Her hands found his stiffness. “What does that all mean? For Brandr, for Skyrim? You said there was a dragon at Helgen….” She ran both hands along the shaft.

Ralof groaned. “He’s… supposed to save the world.”  
  
Nyíl laughed. “The whole world, eh?” Her tongue teased Ralof’s chest, and she lightly bit a nipple. Ralof grunted.

“From dragons,” he added. “He said,” Ralof’s breath quickened, “The dragon at Helgen… was…  _ahhh_ ….” Nyíl’s mouth enclosed around his manhood. “Old.” His hand held on to her head, fingers entwined with her curls. “Different. Mmmph. Stronger.” Ralof began to thrust into her mouth. “But… with the Rebellion…,” he moaned, “He fights with us…  _Uh_ _hh!_ ” Ralof cried out when he climaxed inside Nyíl’s mouth.

Ralof lay on the bed, panting. Nyíl thought for a moment that she’d never be able to do what she just did with Brandr. She imagined her jaw popping open and never working properly again. She failed to control her giggling.

“What’s so funny,” asked Ralof.

Nyíl smiled. “Nothing,” she replied.

“Hmmm,” Ralof raised an eyebrow at her.

“So, you said Brandr has to save the world? From dragons? What if he…. dies?” Nyíl asked.

Ralof sat up next to Nyíl. “I don’t know.” Ralof thought a moment. “I suppose, if he fails…,” he ran a hand up Nyíl’s leg, “We’ll have to make the most of our lives while we can.” His hand reached the dark curls between her legs. Her hips shifted. His hand cupped her dark mound. He slowly crept up on top of her. Nyíl stretched to kiss him, but Ralof shifted his weight. His strong hands gripped Nyíl’s hips and moved her to the foot of the mattress. He knelt on the floor before her and, for a moment, gazed in to her silver-grey eyes. Nyíl was distracted and did not expect Ralof’s next move.

His hands slipped under her buttocks, allowing his elbows to hook her thighs. Nyíl was trapped between Ralof and the mattress. She gasped when she felt his mouth between her legs. Even if she wanted to, she could not move. Nyíl laid herself down on the mattress, giving in to him. His tongue explored her, licking and prodding. Her hips moved against him as much as his strong arms allowed. The whimpering cries that escaped her mouth were beyond her control. Ralof took all of that from her. Part of her was unnerved by the restraint. She was helpless in that moment, not purely because of his strength – her legs were strong, too, and could have worked out of his grasp – but the pleasure overcame her will to resist. Ralof’s grasp, his hands below her, his mouth between her legs, combined with their love for one another made this pleasure almost unbearable. She was lost to him. Completely lost. The explosion that followed was stronger than any she experienced before. She no longer existed. Nothing existed. For how long was she moaning, crying out Ralof’s name, shuddering and convulsing beneath his grasp?

Only when her cries quieted and body stilled did Ralof loosen his grip. He kissed her inner thigh, her hip, navel, and suckled each breast. Nyíl was oblivious, and barely noticed his caresses until he entered her in one fast, deep thrust. Nyíl jumped in surprised. She opened her eyes to see his filled with intensity. She felt his mouth nearly touching hers, felt his thrust deep within her, one of his hands holding hers above her head, the other gripping her waist. She needed to kiss him. Needed to feel his mouth on her own. She licked her lips - a voiceless plea she hoped he’d understand.

With a growl, he intuitively obeyed with a kiss so intense it stole her breath. She moaned into his mouth. In a moment of weakness Ralof loosened his grip on her hands. Immediately she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her lower legs grasped at his backside, pushing him into her.

Ralof lifted Nyíl off the bed and turned, then lowered himself with Nyíl on top of him, relinquishing his control. In steady rhythmic motions, Nyíl raised and lowered herself onto him. His hands held her backside. Her curly hair bounced around her shoulders. Ralof thrust up to meet her. Their rhythmic dance continued well after Nyíl convulsed again in pleasure, crying out and grasping at Ralof’s strong chest, leaving several scratch marks. Further movement prolonged her pleasure. Ralof reached for her beasts and massaged them, squeezed them, nearly too hard when his own pleasure climaxed.

Nyíl collapsed to Ralof’s side. Her right arm fell across his torso. His chest rose and sank in unison with her own. His left arm landed on hers and grasped her hand. The pair lay motionless, except for their heavy breathing.

Nyíl’s mind slowly began to function again. She wondered what time it was. Did Gerdur and Hod assume she was…. preoccupied? The sudden awareness of her parched mouth finally removed her from her stupor. “I need water,” she managed to say.

“Me too,” Ralof said. He slowly rolled out of bed and walked to the dining table, grabbed a pitcher and filled two mugs. He walked them over to the bed. The pair drank heavily. A moment later, Ralof said, “You know, dragons aren’t the only legend that has proven to be true. Vampires are real. I think I may even know one.”  
  
Nyíl gave him a look. “Where did  _that_  comment come from? Who do you know that’s a vampire?”

Ralof turned to her and moved in as if to kiss her, but stopped short and said, “You.”

Nyíl’s brow creased in confusion and she shook her head. “What? Why would you think that?”

Ralof grinned, his right dimple appearing. “Because you sucked me dry….” Ralof fell back onto the bed, laughing his head off.

Nyíl rolled her eyes.


	19. Civil War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stormcloak Rebellion continues.

Ralof was still laughing at his own joke when there was a knock at the door.

“Ralof?” he and Nyíl heard Gerdur’s voice.

Nyíl lightly smacked the side of Ralof’s buttocks. “Go and answer your sister,” she ordered, then added, “But cover yourself first!” She laughed.

Ralof smirked and wrapped his blue cloak around his waist. Nyíl quickly threw on a dress. The blue cloth hugged Ralof’s sides and revealed glimpses of his buttocks. Nyíl grinned.

“Gerdur,” Ralof addressed his sister after opening the door.

“Ralof,” she gave him a wry smile. “So you  _are_ alive?”

“Of course I am, Gerdur. What do you need?”

“Invite her  _in_ , Ralof,” Nyíl said from inside the house.

Clearly annoyed at the interruption of his intimate morning, Ralof merely stepped back from the entrance to let Gerdur pass through the doorway.

“Really, one would think you two were on your Honeymoon!” The unexpected voice came from Brandr who stepped into the doorway after Gerdur. He was grinning from ear to ear. His green eyes sparkled, accentuated by crow’s feet. He looked Ralof up and down. “Nice skirt.”

A faint grumble sounded from his throat.

Nyíl walked up to the visitors. “Good morning Gerdur,” and then, almost unwillingly, added, “Brandr….”

“You mean ‘afternoon’,” Brandr winked.

Nyíl blushed and cleared her throat. “What can we do for you?”

“You could release your captive, for starters,” Brandr said to Nyíl.

_Why did he always look like he knew some deep, dark secret about me? s_ he wondered.

Brandr turned to Ralof. “A Stormcloak courier came by while you were… indisposed. I accepted your summons for you.” He handed Ralof the letter.

Ralof quickly opened the folded, wax-sealed paper and read its contents. He looked up to Brandr, and then Nyíl.

“What is it?” Nyíl and Gerdur asked at the same time.

Ralof refolded the paper. “It’s begun, the second stage. We’ve been called to battle.” He turned to Nyíl. “To Hjaalmarch.”

Nyíl felt a shiver. “Hjaalmarch?…. At this time of year?”

Brandr smiled. “Why don’t you come along and keep him warm?”

Nyíl shot him a look that communicated the desire to slap him.

“What’s the second stage?” Gerdur asked.

“We take back the Imperial-occupied forts,” answered Ralof. He turned to Brandr. “Did yours say the same?” Brandr nodded.

“When do you leave?” asked Nyíl.

“Three hours ago,” said Brandr. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Galmar we ran into a couple dragons along the way.” He winked at Ralof.

Nyíl placed her hand on Ralof’s bare back. He turned to her, and then back to Brandr and his sister. “I’ll be out in a moment.” The two left and Ralof closed the door.

Nyíl wrapped her arms around Ralof’s torso and just held him from behind. He turned. His strong arms warmed her back in their embrace. “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. There are many forts to be taken. Weeks, months….” His hands clung to her dress. “You really could come, you know. As I said before…”  
  


“I know,” she said with her cheek pressed against his chest. His hand stroked her hair. “I should have thought about it more, I suppose….”

“You have,” he kissed the top of her head, “And there’s no shame in not being able to face that sort of situation.”

“But you face it….”

Ralof chuckled. “All soldiers do, until the day they can’t any longer….”

“I would be a distraction to you.”

“You wouldn’t be on the front line,” Ralof reminded her.

“No….”

“And distractions would be welcome back at base camp. Although….”  
  
“Although?” Nyíl looked up at him.

Ralof sighed, and smiled softly. “We’re not allowed… relations… while at camp. We need all our energy,” he ran his fingers through her hair, “For the battlefield.”

“So… I would have to ignore you?”

Ralof laughed. “Thankfully, no. Just…. you would have to sleep in the Healer’s tent. Or a tent of your own, if there were many injured.”

“But I could still be there, to heal you, others….”

“Yes.”

A loud knock on the door. “Ralof!” Brandr was shouting. “Do I need to carry you away kicking and screaming? Come on!”

“A moment!” Ralof shouted back.

Nyíl straightened her posture. “I’ll help you dress.” She untied the blue cloak from around his waist and retrieved his scattered clothing from around the house.  _Healer tent_. She helped wrap his undergarment.  _Battle front._ Mail shirt and tunic.  _Imperials._ Cloak.  _Lots of Imperials._ She struggled with his belt straps.

“Let me,” Ralof offered. He fastened the straps and then grasped Nyíl’s shaking hands. He kissed each wrist, each palm, and then pressed her left hand onto his cheek, her right above his strongly beating heart. He bent to kiss tears away, ending with a long, gentle kiss on her forehead. They embraced once more. Nyíl heard Ralof’s heartbeat.

“I can’t,” she said.

“I know.” He took hold of each cheek and kissed her mouth. Was she imagining it, or did she feel sorrow in his kiss? Nyíl placed her hands over his.

Ralof broke away, held her hands for a moment, tight, tighter. He released his grip and turned away. He slipped his boots onto his feet. His hand settled on the door handle, but he did not pull. Before leaving the house, he turned to her again. “I’ll send word, if I can.” And then he was gone.

* * *

 

One month. Nyíl kept track of the time by carving lines onto sticks. One line per day. One stick per month. The shape of the moon confirmed the closing of another month was near. Almost two full rounds of moon phases had passed since Ralof left. No word. No news. No letters or couriers or even dreams gave her any indication of where Ralof and the Stormcloaks were, if they were alive, if the war was even still happening. Riverwood was as always a safe, secluded town. Instead of having nightly dreams of being impaled or raped by Imperials, Nyíl now dreamed of trees, log cabins and mudcrabs, though the occasional nightmare involving zombies eating her face added spice to her nightly visions.

She never understood the mudcrab dreams. Lately the thought of eating their meat, which usually appealed to her, made her feel ill. Whenever she dreamed of mudcrabs, she awoke with an uneasy stomach.

Nyíl helped Sven carry a long log to the mill. She suddenly felt weak, but kept going. Once the log was transferred to Hod, she let out an exasperated sigh and her back fell against the side of the mill.  
  
“You alright?” Sven asked.

“Just tired. A bit dizzy.”

“Maybe you caught the sickness that Camilla had. She was in bed for days.” Sven felt Nyíl’s forehead. “No fever, but you do look a little pale.”

“I suppose I should go see Hilde,” Nyíl admitted.

“Go on,” said Hod. “Don’t worry about this.”

“Thanks, Hod.” Nyíl forced herself to stand straight and walked to Hilde’s house.

* * *

 

Hilde confirmed her suspicions after placing her hand on Nyíl’s lower abdomen. “You’re with child,” she said.

Nyíl’s eyes went wide. “What? No, that can’t be….”

“It  _is_ ,” Hilde declared.

Nyíl thought back to the previous months. Surely she’d…. “Ohh….” In her distractions Nyíl failed to realize she had never bled last month. “I suppose that would explain the upset stomach.”

“Mm-hmm.” Hilde confirmed.

“The weakness?”

“Very likely.”

“And no bleeding last month….”

Hilde handed her a pouch of something pleasant-smelling. “Yellow mountain flower and thistle tea, for your stomach,” a not-so-pleasant-smelling pouch, “Garlic and Namira’s powder, for the child. Not as tea, but with meals,” and a strongly sweet-smelling pouch, “Taffy.” Hilde smiled. “Congratulations.”

Nyíl grinned at Hilde and jumped up to hug her. Though she can be a bit difficult at times, Hilde had become a good friend to Nyíl.

“I assume the child is Ralof’s,” the old woman said.

“Yes.”

“Good. This world could use more of the likes of him….” Hilde returned to her mortar and pestle and continued to mix some powders.

* * *

 

Three months since Ralof left. Nyíl’s stomach calmed and she no longer dreamt of mudcrabs. Just trees, log cabins, and zombies. Instead of her stomach turning at the thought of eating half of her favorite foods, she now craved apple cabbage stew. All the time. Morning or evening. Hilde insisted she added the garlic and Namira’s powder to her meals at least once a day, however, so instead for dinner Nyíl made herself a cheesy chicken dish that tasted good with the mix.

Four months. No word of the Stormcloaks. Nyíl had given a letter for Ralof to the weekly courier, but again there were no promises. She said in the letter that Ralof was to be a father. She asked him to be as safe as he could. She hoped this would only make him more brave, instead of afraid to carry on fighting.

Nyíl was taking her morning walk along the river when a sudden pain like a sword in her abdomen sent her stumbling to the ground. She felt around for a sword, sure one was slicing into her, but nothing was there. She looked behind her and saw no one. Again, pain. She cried out and clenched her stomach. It was Hod who came to her first.

“Nyíl! What’s happened?” He helped her stand.

“Not… sure…..” Again the pain. Her knees gave out.

Hod picked her up and began a brisk walk to Hilde’s house.

“It’s happened again,” Nyíl said softly.

Hod barely heard her. “What?”

“Not again…” Hod saw then that she was bleeding.


	20. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof returns to Riverwood after the war.

Five months. Nyíl counted her sticks and marks several times a day. She rarely left her bed.

It was hot outside now. Sometimes Nyíl sat by the river with her feet in the water.

Gerdur had grown more and more concerned for Nyíl’s welfare. The young woman rarely spoke, and when she did her responses were short, simple phrases. Ralof’s sister had resorted to living with Nyíl in her house so she would be sure Nyíl would eat.

Almost six months had passed when a commotion at the west entrance caught Nyíl’s attention. Riverwood was so peaceful that, except for the mill, there were no sounds but the river, birdsong, and conversations.

Nyíl stood from the riverbank and walked toward the bridge. There in front of the inn stood a blonde gelding with Ralof astride his back. A crowd had gathered around him. Brandr was there, too. He helped Ralof down from his horse.

 _Helped him down?_  A switch turned on inside Nyíl and she ran the rest of the way to the inn. Ralof grimaced when he put weight on his right leg. Brandr let Ralof use him as a crutch.

“Ralof!” Nyíl leapt into his arms.

He held her tight. Relished the feel of her body. Took in her scent. “Wait…” Ralof held her away from him with his free arm. “Your stomach….” Ralof’s hand felt the loose fabric of Nyíl’s dress. His eyes flooded with confusion and worry.

He had received her letter.

Nyíl nearly collapsed into Ralof. Both he and Brandr had to steady her. Nyíl’s tears were long overdue. Until that moment she had felt nothing but emptiness, the comforting numbness she resorted to when reality was too much to bear. Brandr and Ralof exchanged a look and much to his chagrin, Brandr ended up bracing both Ralof and Nyíl the short distance back to their home. Brandr settled the sobbing Nyíl onto her bed, and helped Ralof to a chair that he placed near the bed. The green-eyed warrior gave Ralof a knowing look, held his shoulder for a moment, and closed the door behind him as he left.

Ralof managed to lift himself from the chair to the bed. He wrapped his arms around Nyíl who sat there, sobbing, for a long time.

Gerdur came by with tea and some food. Nyíl refused the offering and curled into herself on the bed. Gerdur took Ralof aside and quietly explained what had happened. A pained expression spread across Ralof’s face. He hugged his sister and asked her to send Hilde to him.

* * *

 

Small sips of a calming tea. Nibbles of cheese. Ralof took over the care of Nyíl while Hilde took care of Ralof’s leg. During the battle at a fort in Haafingar, Ralof took an arrow to the side of his right knee and another in his right upper arm. The arm wound was mostly healed now, but the leg wound worried Hilde. The arrow had damaged tendons, damage that would likely never fully heal. The torn flesh was healing, though, and Ralof would live. Running, and particularly fighting, however, may never be a possibility again.

But this mattered little. Before returning to Riverwood with the aid of Brandr, Ralof remained at base camp while the rest of the soldiers successfully stormed the city of Solitude.

The Stormcloaks had won the war.

Though Ralof would have preferred to continue aiding the Stormcloaks in ridding Skyrim of Imperial presence, Ulfric insisted that he retire. He knew all too well that a once-injured knee could easily become injured again, leading to more pain than before. This was the very reason Ulfric saw little action himself. After the soldiers returned to their base camp, Ulfric presented Ralof with a special cloak, reserved for both badly injured soldiers and also given to the families of the fallen. It was Stormcloak blue, with Ulfric’s bear emblem embroidered on the back.

Brandr had been a priceless boon to the campaign. He was promoted to the rank of Officer after Solitude was taken. But the praise, rank and uniform meant less to Brandr than they did to Ralof. After returning to Riverwood, Brandr gifted his friend with the Officer’s uniform, complete with bear headdress. The two had bonded over the long months at war, and Brandr was happy to give Ralof the items. He only wished he could give him a new knee.

The summer days passed. Ralof was instructed by Hilde not to walk much unless absolutely necessary. Sven fashioned for Ralof two tall walking sticks with a fork at the top that he could brace under his arms. After a few weeks, walking became manageable, and he and Nyíl often walked together by the river, sat on its banks, or reclined in a meadow to watch the clouds drift by.

“Gerdur had said you mentioned to Hod, the day you lost the baby, that it was happening again. Had you lost a child before?” Ralof asked. Nyíl was curled up to his side in their quiet meadow, her head resting on his arm.

“Once, long ago.” Her fingers gently stroked Ralof’s hair. “I was 17 years old. Not really wanting to be a mother, then, but…. I would have; the father and I were good friends. But it went away…. I thought this time it would be fine. I was so far along…. Last time, I was barely showing.” Tears streamed down her cheek onto Ralof’s arm.

Ralof rolled onto his side and gazed at the woman he loved. “Do you think you would try again? I’m sure such a thing wouldn’t happen every time…. Perhaps, now, with the war over…. I will be here. You would have to work less, worry less.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his hand.

Nyíl thought a moment. “I would. Try again, I mean. To have your child,” she smiled. “Even if…”

Ralof kissed her other wet cheek. “If a child comes, it comes. If it goes away…. I’ll still be here.”

Nyíl smiled up at Ralof. He kissed her lips in a soft, sweet embrace. Ralof rolled onto his back again and wrapped his arms about her. Nyíl always felt that her body conformed to his perfectly in this way.

More fluffy clouds floated across the sky. Nyíl saw a fish, a horse’s head, and a mouse without a tail.

Ralof moved his right arm from around Nyíl to his side. His hand searched inside the pocket of his new linen trousers. Nyíl felt something slip onto a finger on her left hand.

A silver diamond ring, embellished with two small sapphires.

Nyíl gazed at the jewel and shifted her fingers, letting the gems sparkle in the sunlight. “Where did… How… What is—” Nyíl was quieted when Ralof held a finger to her lips. He replaced his finger with his mouth. A light kiss.

Ralof sat up and held Nyíl’s hands in his. “Nyíl,” he began.  _Was his voice shaking?_ Nyíl thought. She sat up too. “You and I… we’ve been through so much together. So much apart…. But,” he cleared his throat, “I knew from the moment I first held you, that day on the steps….”

“Before Windhelm?”  
  
“Yes,” he smiled.

“Your stitches had failed….”

“And you patched me up,” he smiled. His right hand cupped her cheek. “Nyíl…”

“Ralof,” she held his other hand in both of hers, tight against her chest.

“Nothing would make me happier than to live the rest of my life with you by my side.” Ralof raised her left hand to his lips. “Will-” his voice cracked, “Will you marry me?”

Nyíl kissed Ralof so hard she nearly knocked him to the ground. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she began to cry. Her laughter broke through their embrace. She looked into Ralof’s shining blue eyes and stroked his long blonde hair.

“Yes.” Through her tears and laughter, she added, “Of course I will.”

Ralof’s dimples accented his smile.


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending. (Ralof character build post-Civil War.)

Nyíl watched her children as they splashed in a calm bend of White River. Nadja shook her head at her brother, making her long, dark blonde curls bounce to and fro. She looked up and waved to Nyíl, flashing her sea-blue eyes.  _My father’s eyes,_  Nyíl thought. Daron, Nyíl’s son who she named after her mother’s father, looked exactly like Ralof. Nadja was the name of Ralof’s mother. The twins were four-and-a-half years old now.

Ralof stepped into the river behind the two. He grabbed a laughing Daron by the waist and lifted him onto his shoulders. Nadja tried to run away from them against the current.

“You can’t catch me!” she proclaimed, doing her best to swim away. “Ooh a shell.” Nadja dove under the water to retrieve it. She emerged triumphant and held out the white shell to Nyíl. “Mommy! For you!”

Nyíl removed her dress and lowered herself into the water in front of Nadja. There was a smooth boulder there that served nicely as an underwater seat. Nyíl’s engorged belly was half submerged in the cool water. “Well, that is one beautiful shell. Are you sure I can keep it?” Nyíl asked her daughter.

“Yes!” Nadja handed the shell to Nyíl, kissed her mother’s belly and swam to her brother and father who were play-fighting.

Nyíl felt the child within her kick. No matter how many times Hilde reassured her that she would likely not miscarry again after birthing two healthy children, Nyíl eagerly awaited every movement the new life within her let her feel.

Ralof approached with two wriggling cherubs in his arms. He still limped most of the time, but regular activities were not a problem for his knee, especially in the cool, gentle river. The sun lowered in the west and cast a warm glow on Nyíl’s family.

“Mommy! Help!” Nadja squealed.

“The Troll got us!” Daron punched his tiny fists into Ralof’s chest, pretending to fight back.

Ralof feigned an evil laugh and spun around a few times, then landed one child, then the other on the riverbank. “It’s almost time for dinner,” Ralof said. “Go on inside and get dry.”

The children ran into the house. Hod had fashioned an extension onto one side that served as the children’s bedroom. A third bed would have been an issue, but Hod said he could make a sort of stacked bed that the two older children could use, one mattress above the other. Nyíl was skeptical of the safety, but Hod showed her the sturdy bed posts and she was reassured.

Ralof sat next to his wife on the underwater boulder. She shivered and snuggled up next to him. “You’ve got gooseflesh,” Ralof said, running his hand over her belly. He kissed the top of her head.

“I’ll go in a moment,” she said. His arms warmed her enough.

Ralof felt the child kick. “I think he wants out.”

“He?”

“He, she, it, whoever is inside there knows they’re missing out on all the fun.” He rubbed the area where the kick came from.

The sky turned a brilliant pink-orange before the sun hid behind the distant mountains.

“Mommmm, we’re hungry!” Daron stormed out, whining.

Nyíl grinned. Ralof stood and helped her onto the riverbank. He kissed her nose. “Come on, love.”

Ralof picked up Nyíl’s dress, took her hand in his, and walked her home.


End file.
